The Many Heads Of The Dragon
by AShadowThingy
Summary: For generations the Targaryen family would lay a dragon egg in the cradle of their children. This tradition was not one that Rhaegar forgot, and it would be one that he would honor with his children. All of his children. Image not mine.
1. Chapter 1

**Recently became a fan of A Song Of Ice And Fire. Thought I'd give this a stab. Please let me know how I do.  
**

* * *

**283 AC  
The Tower Of Joy.**

No matter the end of the day, no matter who was fought, no matter who was to emerge the victor, and no matter who was to die, Eddard Stark would always know a single truth taken from today: He hated the heat of the south. Hot an unrelenting, he felt like he was cooking alive inside his steel, the baking heat of the sand that rose through his boots didn't help.

Their progress was slow as they made their way up the incline. Ned could see their goal up ahead; the ruined, round stone monument of The Tower Of Joy, reaching up high into the sky. He marched up the slope with his most trusted; the proud Martyn Cassel, the faithful Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, who had been the squire of Eddard's older brother Brandon; the soft of speech and heart Ser Mark Ryswell, the crannogman and close friend of Eddard, Howland Reed and lastly, the great bear of a man Lord William Dustin, his great battle axe across his back.

Eddard took in a great gulp of air as they breached the top of the small hill the tower stood atop of, the seven men of the north staunch and tall with steel in hand and on their back, yet even they were weary of the sight that greeted them. Three men awaited; The White Bull and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower stood tall and true, sword in hand and shoulders kept wide in pride. Sitting on nearby rocks with his pearl white greatsword resting on his shoulder, Ser Arthur Dayne peered at them with his quick violet eyes; the last of the three, Ser Oswell Whent, was on one knee as he sharpened his blade with an old whetstone.

Their white cloaks floated regally in the almost nonexistent breeze, and their pale armor shone just short of divinity under the merciless sun, their faces like stone as the stared the northerners down. Eddard and his men stopped not ten paces from the kingsguard, keeping his keen eyes dancing from one to the other.

"I looked for you on the Trident." Eddard spoke, his thick, brogue northern accent breaking the silence.

"We were not there." Ser Gerold answered gruffly.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been." Ser Oswell glowered.

Eddard nodded slowly as Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur rose to stand by their Commanders side. "When Kings Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew you king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were." The norther Lord spoke again.

"Far away." Said Ser Gerold, his voice firm and unyielding, yet there was a rage behind his eyes, a fury the likes of which would sent any Baratheon running. "Or Aerys would yet sit upon the throne and our false brother would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege." Ned bit out tersely. "Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us loyalty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily." Ser Arthur Dayne spoke.

"Ser Willem Darry has fled to Dragonstone, your Queen and Prince in his care." Ned said as Ethan Glover slowly stepped to the right of the two opposing sides, Ser Oswell's piercing gaze watching him all the while. "I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a true and good man." Ser Oswell said under his breath, eyes not leaving Ethan.

"But he is not of the kingsguard." Ser Gerold pointed out. "The kingsguard do not flee." He said resolutely.

"Not then, not now." Ser Arthur agreed as he gripped the top of his helm and donned the steel.

"We swore a vow." Old Ser Gerold Said wearily. "Our vows remain true."

Steel spoke as it rustled together, feet shifting and grips tightening. "And now it begins." Ser Arthur said ominously as his greatsword swung down from his shoulder and was caught by his free hand. He flicked it in testing, the large blade moving swift and true as though it was but a blade of air.

"No." Eddard spoke grimly. "Now it ends."

It was sudden, it was quick. Too quick for Eddard to keep up and before he could move, the battle begun. Taking in a short breath, Ned grit his teeth as he leaped into the fray. Steel screeched against steel and swords crossed in a flurry of action. Ned had hoped this would be a short battle, but his hopes were dashed and his expectations realized as before he had even moved his sword, Ethan Glover, one of Ned's oldest of friends, had been cut down by Oswell Whent in a quick flurry of blade work.

With a roar of fury, Ned lashed out, the sunlight glinting off the steel of his greatsword, Ice, to bat away Oswell's sword effortlessly. With a twist of his body, Ned ignored his screaming arms as he carried the momentum of the swing to lift Ice high above his head and brought it down with a mighty crash, the Valyrian steel caving in the white steelplate armor of the Kingsguard. Blood gushed out onto the sand as Oswell cried out in pain before Ned yanked his blade free from the wound that had nearly shorn off the mans shoulder.

The clang of steel rung out as Eddard gave the fight a brief look over. Martyn Cassel, heir to one of the Starks smaller vassal houses, lay motionless in the reddening sand. Growling at the death of two of his friends, Ned charged to the closest of the Kingsguard, Ice raised to impale the man as he fought both Howland Reed and Ser Mark Ryswell. The blow was blocked with a flurry of movement as Ser Arthur Dayne spun about to redirect all the blades coming for him.

With his breif reprieve, Arthur gave two steps worth of ground to the Northmen, his own family's greatsword, Dawn, ready in hand and he faced his three opponents. Eddard lead the other two to inch forward, slowly creeping closer to the knight. Behind them, a roar of pain and anger was followed by the swift sound of a blade slicing though air and flesh. Silence fell eerily quickly. A heavy weight dropped to the ground. Steel continued to meet steel behind him.

Knowing that another of his friends had fallen, Eddard ground his teeth together and rushed forward, Howland and Ser Mark right behind him. Dawn, a milky pale blade forged from the heart of a fallen star and said to be feather light, flashed in and out of sight as Arthur's scowl of concentration adorned his noble features. The crunch of steel folding upon itself and the thudding of a body absently registered in Ned's mind. Feet dancing and blade a blur, Ned's eyes widened as he soon found himself and two companions being pushed back, the kingsguard's swordplay making children of them.

"Down!" Came the booming voice of William Dustin, and all three Northmen ducked their heads as a bloodied great battle axe hummed through the space their heads had been not half a second before. William was a large man and had the size and strength to rival Robert Baratheon, and Ned'd be damned if William didn't know how to put that size and strength to bloody good use. Yet still, Arthur only seemed to touch Dawn to the axe to deftly dodge a blow that would have cut him in twine.

With William there, Eddard reasoned that the Ser Gerold Hightower had been bested, leaving Ser Arthur Dayne the last of the loyalists. A feeling of reassurance flooded Eddard as Arthur yielded two meters to the four men of the North. With four to one odds, Eddard felt as though they could win this. Ser Arthur Dayne's reputation had been well earned, Ned knew, but against four battle hardened Northmen? He felt the knight stood little chance.

His optimism was short lived.

Dawn lived up to the rumors of being feather light, it seemed, as with a flick of his foot, Arthur had launched the blade of the fallen Oswell high enough for his left hand to grasp it. Eddard looked upon The Sword Of The Morning, the greatsword Dawn in one hand and a longsword in the other. Clad in the blindingly white scale-shaped mail and steel plate armor with the white cloak of the Kingsguard draped over his shoulders, Ser Arthur Dayne was a truly intimidating sight.

Taking a deep breath, Eddard inched closer, Ice held firmly in his grasp. Ned released his breath and jumped forward, Howland at his side as they rained steel upon Arthur's swords. Parry's and jabs flowed like water, and Arthur's blocks and lunges seemed to seamlessly fit into the quick paced sway of the battle. Each blow expertly blocked or deflected before the Kingsguard dashed forward, feet spinning about one another to knock the two of them aside to slide past them to meet William and Martyn, who had just prepared to lunge from the top to cut down the last of the loyalists. Unprepared for the quick feet and flashing blades of Arthur Dayne, William only just managed to dash to the side to avoid having his leg removed, instead receiving a large gash just above his left knee in a small gap in the armor.

Martyn, however, was not so lucky, Dawn shattering his own sword and Arthur's offhand blade gutting him in a dance of deathly metal before he twirled about, Dawn lashing out to relieve Martyn of his head. A sullen silence fell upon the remaining four as Martyn's body collapsed, his head rolling away to paint a macabre trail away from the pool already gathering at the stump of Martyn's neck.

William growled in fury and charged as Ned and Howland jolted forward, Ned's blade coming from above as Howland swung from below. Arthur swung his blades to block the swords with an elegant, yet effective block. Ned locked Ice against Dawn and Howland stamped his foot forward, bringing his heel upon Arthur's foot, staying him only briefly, but briefly enough for an enraged William to bellow with all his strength and bring his war axe down upon Arthur's head. At least he would have, had a young woman not thrown herself in between them.

"Stop this!" She cried out as William, fearful of slaying an innocent, buried the blade of his axe into the sands of Dorne instead of flesh.

"Are you mad, woman?!" Arthur bit out, clearly furious that their fight had been interrupted, as were all the men. "What are you doing? You should be in the tower!" He shouted nodding his head to The Tower of Joy that stood behind Eddard and his men.

"The Lady Lyanna orders you to stop fighting!" The young woman, a handmaiden if her clothes were anything to go by, snapped back just as, if not, more fiercely. Eddard felt a swelling of respect for the woman as well as an itching irritation. Anyone bold enough to jump in front of and four armed men who had just been about to kill one another and then snap at them as though they were but children in the yard earned such respect in his book, yet at the same time, that was possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever seen.

But he paused and considered her words. Lyanna ordered them to stop fighting? But his sister had been kidnapped. That's why he was there, searching for her. Such words would imply a semblance of control, not captivity. Ned frowned at the woman, unsure what to think of her words. He was here to rescue his sister from her captivity at the hands of the former crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. If this were true, then the Prince would have ordered his Kingsguard to keep her there. So why would she be giving the Kingsguard orders? And why would they listen?

The woman's features, which had looked something ferocious not moments ago, softened into worry and stress as she looked upon Arthur with pleading eyes. "Please, we... We need help with the second one. She's having trouble." At this, Ser Arthur paled and took a step back. Immediately, Eddard and Howland, who had been putting all their weight upon Arthur's blades, stumbled forwards before catching themselves under their own feet.

Without so much as a word, Arthur pushed between them and made for the tower, seeming to have forgotten all about the Northmen. William seemed to take offense to this, growling as he pulled his axe from sands and looked about to raise it when the handmaiden, who had been about to follow the knight, whirled on him with a pointed look of fury. His paused, clearly hesitating, only to lower his steel again. With that, she turned about and jogged to keep up with the quick paced Ser Arthur.

Eddard straightened himself, brow damp with sweat and breath ragged and heavy as he glowered at the back of Arthur as he stopped at the foot of the stairs to the tower. Ice still in hand, Eddard offered a shoulder to William, the blood of his wound seeping down his leg and armor to stain the yellow sands as he kept his weight off the injured leg. Howland walked in front of the two other Northmen, sword at the ready as they stopped but a few paces short of Arthur.

"I need your words." Arthur said as, from the tower, a cry of anguish rang out. A cry Ned recognized as he tensed. He had heard only a few times before; the time as a child Lyanna had fallen from her climb up the tallest tree of Winterfell and broken her leg being the worst instance to come to mind, as Eddard had been there to see it happen. His gut wrenched in familial pain at the sound. Lyanna was in horrendous pain.

Ned tried to lurch forward, William nearly collapsing under the sudden movement, but his friend held him true as he was stopped by a blade pointed at his throat, hovering not inches from his skin as Arthur glowered at him. "Your words that no harm will come to anyone in that tower." He managed through gritted teeth. "Here and now, or I'll cut you all down, brother and friends of my lady or not."

"That's my sister in there." Ned snarled as he glared up at Arthur. "I came here with my men to take her home. To safety." The blade inched closer to his throat as Eddard swallowed. "I would raze all the world if it meant she was safe. On my word and honor, I shan't harm a hair on her head, or anyone else within those walls." Ned swore, Howland and William swearing the same.

"Good." Arthur sighed, dropping the longsword in his offhand as he sheathed Dawn. "Come then. They need help." With that, he turned about, his feet quick and lite as he took the steps two at a time and vanished into the open doorway.

"Just gimme the fucking word." William growled out as Howland cautiously followed The Sword Of The Morning up the stairs of the tower, Eddard taking the time to help his friend hobble up the staircase. "Gimme the fucking word and I'll cut the cunt in half." In spite of himself and the situation at hand, Ned smiled at his friend.

"Come on. I want to know what in the seven hells is going on here." Eddard muttered as he took more of Williams impressive bulk upon his shoulders. The staircase was tedious, settling Ned's anxiety ablaze with each step they took, but they soon reached a room that smelt of blood and roses, and odd combination if Ned had ever known one. But when he looked about the room, he found it was smaller than the tower would suggest, a doorway and more stairs opposite himself suggesting more. The rooms stone walls were rather bland, with sparse furniture save for the cradle, the small table and the bed that lay beside it. But his veins became ice and the color drained from his face. "Lyanna!" He cried out.

William hobbled off the the side to slide down the wall and rest, leaving Eddard free to bolt across the room to his sisters side. She lay on a bed of what used to be white sheets, now stained in blood and sweat. He took her in as she howled in pain; her normally pale skin now sickly white and clammy, her eyes wondering about the room, unfocused and almost delirious as the sheets stuck to her skin. Her legs were splayed wide as a wetnurse and the handmaiden sat at the bloody end of the bed, the large swelling of Lyanna's belly striking fear into his heart.

Lyanna had been snatched away and had been missing for nigh of eight and ten moons, more than enough time for a child to grow within her. But within that time, he would suspect only one man who would have put one in her. The former crown Prince himself: Rhaegar Targaryen.

Blood boiling, Eddard clench his hands clenched as Lyanna wailing in pain again, words of encouragement from the two woman urging her on. Urged her on to birth the spawn of the coward who stole his sister away, the so called dragon that had defiled her in such a way. Eddard fumed in silence at his sisters side. He would have done more than fume, he feared, if the snappy voice of the wetnurse hadn't brought him to heel.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to do something?" She nearly shouted in something akin to both annoyance and desperation. Startled, Eddard took his sisters hand, something he almost regret as soon as he did so, Lyanna's grip almost crushed his bones as leaned in close to her ear.

"Lyanna, it's alright. You're going to be alright." He said, whispering sweet words of soothing to her as her head slowly turned to look up at him.

"Ned..." She whimpered, and Eddard felt pain lance through his heart at the words. He was vaguely away of Arthur being ordered to help the wetnurse birth the child as Howland fetched clean water for the handmaiden as she fussed about, cleaning Lyanna with wet cloths so as to help the wetnurse see what was happening. "Ned... Please. Take care of them." Lyanna wheezed, and Eddard felt his veins running cold once more.

"What? No! No, you're not dying!" His grip tightened on her hand. "You're going to be fine, sister. You're going to be fine, and you're going to be able to see your child grow up strong and brilliant, just like you." He said, his voice falling to a desperate whisper as he cupped her cheek as though she were something fragile as, for the first time in her life since she was a babe, she truly was. He could see it in her shallow, tired breathes and her watering eyes. He could feel it in her touch, her grip weakening by the second. His sister, his fierce little sister who would stand tall and shout defiantly at the world until it crumbled to her will, was dying.

"Push! You're nearly there!" The wetnurse urged on. Lyanna let loose a horrifying wail as she pushed, her once failing grip on Eddard's hand once more threatening to shatter each and every bone before falling limp, the bulge in her belly shrinking greatly as silence hung in the air. A complete silence that sent shivers down Ned's spine. Looking down to the end of the bed, Eddard found the wetnurse and handmaiden cleaning off a quite bloody infant as it was held, wrapped in thick cloths, in Arthur Dayne's arms. The wetnurse sighed in relief. "Another beautiful boy." She whispered, and Eddard paused.

Another? His mind reeling, he found the words of the handmaiden oddly loud in his head. '_We need help with the second one._' Lyanna seemed to be lapsing in and out of consciousness as Eddard straightened and looked about the room, only for his eyes to lock onto the wetnurse as she set the babe in the cloth down in a cradle pushed against the wall, the baby boy resting next to another, almost identical bundle of cloth. He was about to open his mouth and demand answers when he felt a gentle tug on his hand. Looking back down, he found the unfocused eyes of Lyanna staring back up at him.

"Ned..." Her hoarse voice managed. "Jaehaerys... His name is Jaehaerys." She smiled weakly, a smile that soon fell. "Ned, please. Protect them..." Ned felt his heart shatter as he knelt closer.

"No no no, you can't die here. Not now, not after everything." He begged, gently cupping her hand close to his lips. "Please no. I don't want you to die. Please Lyanna, please live." Slowly, tears stung at his eyes.

"Robert... He'll kill them, Ned." Lyanna weakly whispered. "Promise me... Promise me..." A lone tear slowly fell from the corner of her eye and onto the pillow beneath her, Ned watching as the light of her eyes faded in and out.

"I promise." He said quickly, hanging onto the words as though they would keep her here, as though his promise would keep her alive. "I'll look after them as though they are my own. I swear it! Please, just please don't..." But even as he said the words, he watched as Lyanna smiled softly, her body growing limp and her eyes losing the joyous life that he had come to know was Lyanna's and Lyanna's alone. Not once had he seen such vibrancy of life in the eyes of another, even as it slipped away from the plane of the living, not even as her grip on his hand lessened, her fingers slipping from his grasp.

* * *

William was finishing dressing his own wound, his leg naked to the world as he sat on the floor with bloodied rages keeping him from bleeding out, when he heard the first strangled sob from Ned's hunched shoulders. William had just fought in a brutal, bloody, if not short civil war. He had seen many men grieving, many men mourning, and even more men cry. But never Lord Eddard Stark. Eddard had lost brother and father to the Mad King, yet he hadn't shed a tear, the Quite Wolf remaining staunch as a marble pillar against the maelstrom of emotion that had to have been whirling about inside.

It was the day that his brother and father died that Eddard had earned his respect, and ever since his respect for his brother in arms had spurred on the become undying loyalty. But now, the man he held in the highest of regard, the most honorable man known to the seven kingdoms, wept at his sisters body, and William, having stood beside his liege lord since the first battle and had been there since, didn't know what to do.

Gritting this teeth as he pushed himself up, he ignored the pain in his legs as he limped over the Eddard's side and rested a great big hand on his shoulder. He knew Eddard might hate him for this, but he'd seen good men turned mad with grief and denial before. He didn't want the same to before his lord now. "Is she..." William asked, his deep voice like the movement of the earth as his words hung in the air. Eddard needed to say it. To admit it.

"Aye." Eddard choked out, his back straightening as he reeled his emotions in. "She's dead." A somber mood fell upon those in the tower as confirmation rung out. "Lyanna Stark is dead." Nodding, William bent down next to his lord, Howland standing at their backs with his hand on the hilt of his sword as guard while the two prayed to The Old Gods for Lyanna, her spirit in their hands now.

The southerners in the room allowed both William and Eddard a moment at Lyanna's side in silence before the northerners rose. "My lord." The handmaiden curtsied to Eddard. "The Lady Lyanna had several possessions in the room above, if you'd like them to return with you." She said, her voice quite and appeasing.

"Aye, I will." Ned nodded solemnly, about to make for the stairs that lead upwards through the door when he was stopped by the girl again.

"My lord..." She was clearly nervous, a complete contrast to the woman whose glare had put pause to William's axe earlier. "What of the babes? She named the oldest twin Aegon. Did she... Did she name the youngest?"

"Aye." Eddard nodded again, his face a stony mask of calm. "She named him Jaehaerys. And she made me promise to take them with me. To protect them." He said, a resolute steel in his voice. "I will. And no one outside this room will know about it." William frowned.

"My lord, you are already wed. How would you explain this to Caytlyn if none not here will know?" He asked, his bushy eyebrows creasing into a frown. Slowly, Eddard turned to look William in the eye, and for the first time since he was a boy, William felt small under the sight of his pure, untainted resolve.

"They are my bastard sons." Ned whispered, but in the silence of the tower, it was heard well enough by all. "The twins Snow. My sons."

"I'll not have it." Snapped an angered voice, and all heads turned to see Ser Arthur. He had removed his helm to reveal his noble features and weathered, sun-browned skin and mousy hair. He stood over the cradle, looking down at the youngest babe with something fierce in his eye as the wetnurse fed the older babe. "These are the sons of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. They are his heirs. The Iron throne is their's by right of blood." Turning about, William's eyes narrowed as he saw Arthur's hand on the hilt of Dawn. "I'll not have the Princes raised and scorned as bastards."

Eddard's eyes turned dark, his own hand resting on the pommel of Ice. "I made a promise, Ser Arthur. I intend to keep it. I will keep them safe, but King Robert will not let them live with Targaryen blood in their veins. He cannot know." He said, a chill in his voice as William bit back a curse. His leg was stiff from his wound and the cloth holding the blood in would further hinder his movement. He'd be a liability if a fight broke out.

"I know." Arthur acknowledged. "I am kingsguard. I live to serve the king and all those of his line. Including Aegon and Jaehaerys Targaryen. I will fulfill the oath I took." Ned's hand fell to to grasp the hilt of his family blade, but Arthur's hand stayed rested on the pommel, not drawing Dawn yet. "But if their name must be sacrificed for their survival..." William blinked, startled as he realized just how defeated Ser Arthur Dayne sounded. "Then their survival comes first." He relented, hand sliding off Dawn's hilt.

The tension that he been steadily building in the room thankfully vanished, everyone relaxing as Ned followed Arthur's example. "I'll see to burying the dead." Howland muttered as he slowly made his way out the door to see to the bloody corpses outside. William was thankful for that, seeing as he felt Eddard would want his sister to look more presentable before being buried.

Sighing, Eddard Stark made his way up to the second floor of the tower, no doubt to investigate Lyanna's possessions for anything precious to her as a possible keepsake. William nodded and looked about, unsure what to do, until he decided to seek out the babes out of curiosity. He noted that the oldest, the one suckling the wetnurse's teat, looked just like a Stark baby ought to, with the small tuft of silken black locks and stormy grey eyes. William smiled. There'd be no doubt within the seven kingdoms that he was Eddard's boy alright.

But the younger twin gave him pause. The same hair, curled black locks of the darkest shade, but he had startlingly purple eyes that stared up at William, the silence of the child unnerving as they stared at one another. "Purple eyes..." William muttered into his great big beard. "By the fucking gods, those are gonna be hard to explain." He cursed, running a hand through his messy brown hair.

"The Targaryen's aren't the only house with purple eyes." Came the smooth voice of Arthur Dayne, startling the bigger man as William hadn't known he was by his side. The Dustin lord gave the Dornish man a weary, sidelong look. Not twenty minutes ago, they were trying to kill one another. Now, the woman William and those he rode with to rescue was dead and he was discussing the future of her bastard babes with the enemy. "We'll just have to try an convince everyone that their mother was of those one of them."

"Aye, we will..." William trailed off, not breaking his stare at The Sword Of The Morning. In the cradle, Jaehaerys reached up with his tiny baby hands, his large and curious eyes and toothless mouth wide in wonder, and Arthur smiled. Removing his glove from his right hand, Arthur reached down with a smile on his face. As soon as they were within reach, Jaehaerys latched onto Arthur's finger with both hands, letting out a halfhearted coo. William couldn't help but smile at the sight.

The wetnurse was just setting Aegon down, the fed babe looking tired already, and she was reaching for his younger brother when the heavy footsteps of Eddard came down the stone steps. Turning about, William and Arthur found him holding a small chest between his hands with its lid open, the Warden of the North staring intently down at its contents, his skin paler than normal which, considering the loss of his sister, wasn't all that surprising to William. The look of fear in his eyes, however, was most definitely wrong.

"Lord Eddard?" William spoke, unsure as to what could possible frighten his liege lord like this.

"Where did these come from?" The lord of Winterfell asked in a harsh whisper. Arthur shifted next to William, leaning on one leg.

"When the Prince discovered that his wife, Elia, was with child, he sent men to scour Dragonstone and Essos, even the ruins of Old Valyria for one." Arthur began. "One was found on Dragonstone, deep in the caves. Five men died of the fumes when they went retrieve it. Later, when Elia was pregnant with Aegon, Prince Rhaegar sent out his men once more. This time he found on near the shores of Old Valyria." William gave pause, an suspicion slowly creeping up his back. "I do not know what became of those two, but last I heard they were in the Red Keep. I pray that they Usurper destroyed them, rather than defile them with his touch." Arthur breathed out, as though the very thought caused him anguish.

A low growl from Eddard seemed to draw the knights eye, but little else. A smirk was all the northern lords threatening glare received. Arthur knew he could best both William and Eddard at the same time, and he knew that they knew as well. It left him with, what William considered anyway, a cocky arrogance born from fact.

"And then." Arthur spoke on. "After he found out Lyanna was pregnant with twins, he sent his men out again, but this time for two. One for each child. The word I heard was that the white one was found near the Shadowlands, while the other was in the hold of a lord in the Crownlands." The Sword of the Morning pressed his lips into a thin line, his voice grim and haunted. "It took months, but they were found. Unfortunately time has turned them to stone. They are nothing more than a pretty decoration. Nonetheless, they are the Prince's inheritance." The knight finished. Eddard frowned as he looked at Arthur.

"He sent his men to look for them during the rebellion?" He asked incredulously. "When? How many?"

"Around ten thousand, four months before the Battle of the Trident." Arthur replied easily, and both William and Eddard paled as the words sunk in. "There was much ground to cover, so he made sure they covered as much as they could. The orders were their top priority, even more so than the battle that cost the Prince his life." Arthur sighed and looked Eddard in the eye. "Had he not sent them away to look for something they might not even find for his children, they would have been at his side during the battle, and the outcome would have been very different, I assure you." William swallowed. What in the name of the Old Gods and New could have been so damn important?

Eddard must have seen the question on his face, because he turned and tilted the chest towards him to reveal the treasures that lay within, and Williams breath hitched.

Jewels. Two shapes decorated in richly colored jewels in the shape of scales. They were large, as large as the babes they were to be gifted to, and as he lifted one from the box, he was surprised by the weight. He had expected them to be decorated porcelain, or fragile enamel, but they weighed as much as a stone the same size.

And the cold. William felt as though he were touching ice, as if the scaled jewels drank in his heat like a thirsty mare, leaving him with a chill running up his arms. Gingerly, he raised the one in his hands up to the light to admire the craftsmanship. The colors were vibrant and beautiful. One looked to be of the palest, purest shade of white he had ever seen and looked as fragile as the morning frost. The other one, the one still in the chest, looked to have gotten its color from a well of blood, so deep and dark was the crimson of its scales, the points of the scales capped in warm, glowing gold, all the while black whorls danced across its shape.

"No matter what time has done to them, even as stone, dragon eggs are one of the most beautiful things to behold." Ser Arthur whispered and he lifted the red egg from the chest, and William nearly dropped the white egg in his hands as the knights words stuck him like a bolt of lightning.

"Dragon eggs?!" He hissed in both fear and awe.

"Indeed." Arthur confirmed with an infuriatingly smug grin as William continued to gawk at the twin dragon eggs. Slowly, the great bearded man placed the white egg back, as though it would hatch at any sudden movement, and peered at the beautiful scales that adorned them as Eddard gently placed the chest next to Lyanna's body.

"You mean to tell me." William began in disbelief. "That Rhaegar fucking Targaryen is dead because he wanted his bastard twins to have something pretty to sit above their hearth?"

"_Prince_ Rhaegar Targaryen." Arthur bit out tersely. "Would have legitimized them. He wanted them, and their half siblings, to know the history of their family, to have a strong feeling of connection to the dragon riders of old." Arthur slowly quieted, until he barely whispered. "He wanted the best for his children."

"His bastard sons that my sister died to give birth to after he raped her." The accusation hung in the air, brittle and full of steel and wrath. Both William and Ser Arthur stiffened at Eddard's words, but for vastly different reasons.

"You just gave your word to your dying sister, Stark." Arthur warned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. It was then that Howland Reed returned, his entrance making no difference as Eddard glared at the Sword of the Morning, William glancing at his battle axe leaning against the wall were he had sat before looking back wearily at Arthur, silently cursing himself for being weaponless in front of the enemy.

"Aye, I did." Eddard spat. "I won't break my word. I'll take them as my own, raise them as my own. I'll keep them safe from Robert." Arthur nodded, but his posture did not lax, his eyes darting about the room to study every detail. "But I never swore anything pertaining you, Ser Arthur." Arthur's eyes stopped, slowly moving to stare Eddard down, matching glare for glare. William could swear he felt the room grow colder. "You are still loyal to the Targaryen's. I ought to see you dead."

"Ought to? Perhaps." Arthur conceded. "But the twins are both Targaryen, and next in line. My honor and oaths bind me to protect them from harm, no matter where it would come from." Arthur stood straighter, his fingers wrapping around Dawn's hilt. "In the interest of protecting the young Princes Lord Stark, I offer you my help." William cocked an eyebrow and, as he peered past Eddard and Ser Arthur, he spied Howland's queer look of confusion. He'd have to explain everything to him later.

"Help?" Eddard frowned. "What help of yours would I need?" Despite the obvious distrust in the Starks icy voice, Arthur managed a small smile.

"Jaehaerys has purple eyes, lord Stark. As does my sister. You have named them your bastard sons, yet your story would remain unconvincing with only one parent." The room seemed to hold its breath as the words washed over the men, the only sound to be heard was the youngest Prince suckling on the wetnurse's tit as the nurse and handmaiden did their best to be invisible.

"I've married, Ser Arthur." Eddard ground out. "I have a newborn son waiting for me at Riverrun. I will bear the dishonor of calling them my own, but I will do no such thing to your sister."

"You won't." Arthur smiled easily, relaxing and turning his back on the northmen and taking a seat on a chair near the bed where Lyanna's body lay, sheets hiding her still form from the world. "I have kept in writing to my sweet sister. I know of what happened between you two during the tourney." Eddard stiffened, his eyes guarded, yet his hand moved to Ice's hilt, only stopping when Arthur held up a hand in truce. "Relax, Lord Stark." His smile vanished. "As per some of her ealier messages, I have grave news, I'm afraid. She fell pregnant."

Eddard Stark paled, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish on land, shame and guilt smitten on his face. "I-I ne-"

"Spare me." Arthur sighed. "She birthed months ago, but the worst of the news is that your daughter was stillborn." William's heart went out to his Liege lord at the sight of heartbreak on the man's face. He had felt terrible for impregnating the maiden, but to hear that child never had a chance... "My sister has been wracked with grief, as you can imagine." Arthur Dayne's voice was quite, pained. "I hate to suggest this, but my sister kept news of her stillborn daughter close to her chest. Only those that helped her birth know..."

William's eyes widened and, from what he could see, so did Howland's as they realized what was being implied. Eddard, however, looked as though he was caught in the middle of unfathomable rage and terrible hope. "You'd dare..." He seethed, settling on the fury that coursed through his blood.

"Yes, I dare." Arthur nodded. "I dare because the Princes need to live. Ashara need only know what is happening and why, and I'm sure she'd love them like her o-"

"No!" Ned roared, making the women in the corner flinch and waking Aegon, the small babe letting out a tired cry. The handmaiden rushed to the crib, lifting the babe to her bosom and began gently rocking him from side to side.

"I-I'm sorry my lords." The poor girl stammered, doing her best to curtsy with both hands on the babe. "We'll be in the room above should you have need of us." The men were silent as her and the wetnurse made themselves scarce, scampering up the stairs as quickly as possible whilst trying to keep the babes from moving too much.

"No." Eddard whispered this time. "I promised to keep them safe, to love them like my own. I will see those vows through. That is final." Words of valyrian steel, will of unyielding time. The head of House Stark would not emerge anything less than victorious or dead from this. Arthur nodded shallowly.

"Then a compromise." He began anew. "We say that the babes are from Ashara's womb, but they will live in Winterfell. It will strengthen our story if she is in the know. No one will question it if she claims them as her own, and you as their father."

"Tis a wise plan, my lord." William offered, nodding in agreement with Ser Arthur, but William knew he had over stepped his bounds when he caught sight of the glare that Eddard shot him. As though struck by an arrow, William winced and backed out of the conversation. Ned held his glare for several tense seconds, thoughts churning in his head, before he sighed.

"No..." He muttered, nodding as he looked to the stairs the woman had left through, thinking of the babes no doubt, before his eyes fell upon his sister. "No, it is a good plan. You are right." Eddard ran his hands down his face, his eyes watery as he took looked down at the bloody sheets that rested over Lyanna's still shape. "Alright. We'll go through with your plan." He said tiredly, eyes not leaving the still form. "But it is as you said, she birthed some time ago. The tourney was nearly two years ago. How would we explain their age?"

"Only the serfs knew she was ever pregnant." Arthur shrugged. "And as servants, they are bound not to speak out against their Lord or Lady." He continued. "Now, I don't know about you northerners, but here in Dorne, we keep out words, for those who don't tend to lose their tongues."

Eddard looked as though he was having to choose between being insulted at the implication against the north or the reassurance of Arthur's words. "If you speak truly." He began slowly. "Then you had best be the one to explain it to your sister." He conceded.

"We should leave as soon as we can then." Arthur nodded, standing as he said so. "We should bury the dead, collect what we need and be on our way." He was brisk as he set about collecting what he needed, calling the women down from the room above. William sighed heavily as he walked to his lieges side, resting a large hand on his shoulder.

Eddard Stark was solemn, silent and torn as he stood like stone. Howland gave his lord a weary sigh before stepping outside to ready the horses, and William began preparing the dead for burial. Yet all that filled his head was the treason they had agreed to commit. If Robert Baratheon found out that there yet remained two who had Targaryen blood in their veins...

* * *

"It'll take two weeks to reach Starfall, I think." Ser Arthur announced, riding at the front of their small procession of six. He had discarded his Kingsguard armor, replacing it with simple riding leathers as he rode atop the horse that had once been the mount of Ser Mark Ryswell, a destrier like William' mount, while Eddard, Howland and the two women rode atop rounceys, each woman carrying a babe. Behind them, dust was kicked into the air by the galloping warhorses, the sand of the rolling hills of the desert plains betraying their position as they rode.

"You think?" William grunted, unimpressed and slightly disheartened. He had a wound that would need seeing to, and soon. He couldn't afford two weeks of riding.

"It depends on which route we take, Lord Dustin." Arthur sighed, looking south, south west and then west, as though contemplating something. "We could take the Prince's Pass, going by Kingsgrave and Skyreach before going directly west from there directly to Starfall." The knight explained. "Or, we could cut through the Red Mountains, head for Blackmont and then we follow the river down to Starfall."

Howland grunted. "Which way would be best?" He asked.

Arthur frowned as the party came to a slow stop, Arthur looking over his shoulder to look to Eddard. "I'd say we should ride the Prince's Pass. Smooth terrain, easy to cover ground, but there's more land to cover. It's well traveled so finding someplace to stay the night won't be difficult and I'd imagine it'd be easier on the Princes." He reasoned.

Eddard, for his part, looked lost in thoughts, peering off into the distance. Behind him, the body of his sister lay across the back of his mount, bound in cloth until they returned to Winterfell, where the Warden of the North would see her given a proper burial in the crypts of their house.

"Lord Stark?" William spoke up, rousing his mare beside his lords and resting a hand on Eddard's shoulder. The touch seemed to startle the young lord from whatever reverie ailed him, as he quickly turned to see William watching him uneasily under his great bushy eyebrows. "What way would you have us go?" Lord Dustin pressed. Eddard nodded, looking to Arthur before flickering his eyes to the Red Mountains, the daunting silhouettes sitting on the horizon, presenting themselves like an imposing dare.

"We take the Prince's Pass." He muttered under his breath, turning his destrier south from the mountains. "The babes would not do well on the mountain pass, I suspect, and it would be best for them if we were to find inns as often as possible. We need supplies, and William needs a Maester, or at least someone who can stitch a wound." The party agreed with his reasoning. "Let us be going." With that, Lord Eddard Stark spurred his horse into a gentle trot, heading for the Prince's Pass.

Hours passed in silence, the party arranging themselves around the handmaiden and the wetnurse as though they were guards protecting their employers. Eddard rode on the women's right, William on the left and Howland trailing behind. All the while, Ser Arthur played the role of guide through Dorne and forward guard. Wind ruled supreme here in the dry plains of Dorne, screaming across the ground to brush their ears, splash their skin and running through their hair as it tugged any loose cloth it could find.

As the time wore on, the sun begining to set and the horses tiring, Arthur spotted a small outcropping of buildings in the distance. A small town that he knew would be for travelers and merchants to stop in during their journey, likely sparsely populated if not for those passing through. Seeing it ahead, The Sword of the Morning slowed his horse until he was astride Ned, the northman having been silent in his mourning ever since they had left the tower.

"There's a town ahead." Arthur informed him. "Not large, just a travelers stop. We ought to find lodgings there for the night and any supplies we need for the journey to come. We'd likely find someone who knows how to stitch a cut as well." Eddard merely nodded solemnly. Nodding, the knight was about to announce it to the small party when a soft voice from the lord stopped him.

"I'm not sure I can do it." The lord Stark muttered as his brow knitted in shame.

"Do what?"

"I gave my word, and I'll do my best to fulfill it, but I'm just not sure I can love them as I should." Ned admitted, his eyes looking watery as Arthur studied his face and, for the first time, he saw just how young Eddard Stark really was, barely a young man, probably around his twentieth name day, and yet his eyes were that of a man who had seen enough bloodshed and death for several lifetimes. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen the true heart of war and decided that he loathed it.

"Why not?" Arthur asked. "They are your sisters babes, your nephews. What stops you from loving them as you should?" The knight found himself genuinely curious for the answer as the rest of the party leaned their ears closer.

"Aye." Ned agreed. "But she died giving birth to two products of rape." Arthur straightened at that, a simmering anger at the slight on Prince Rhaegar, the slight on Arthur's best friend, was unwittingly made.

"I see." He bit out, quitely and tersely, reigning in his emotions as he thought back to the time he had spent with the gentle prince, the happy memories of his friend bringing a smile to his lips. "Would it help if I told you that there was no rape?" He queried.

Eddard grunted, eyes still on the road at his mounts hooves. "Though the gesture is appreciated, your honeyed lies would be no comfort, Ser Arthur." He said gravely, the Quite Wolf seemingly only wishing to returning to his brooding and mourning. Yet Arthur was affronted by the belief that his best friend would commit such an act as rape.

"They're no lies, lord Stark." The Dayne knight persisted. "It's the truth. On my honor." He watched Eddard give him an unbelieving stare, something that Arthur almost found amusing. "What? You truly thought that the She-Wolf was kidnapped?" He asked almost humorously. "I was there when she climbed out of her room window. I was there when Prince Rhaegar caught her. I was there when they laughed as they ran away together." Eddard glowered at his something vicious, and William and Howland tensed, William reaching for his axe.

"Lies..." He growled, yet the knight persisted, leaning forward on his mount in a lax manor.

"I was there when they promised to marry." He continued, meeting Eddard's own glare with his own, all humor lost. "I was there when they learned what their love did the the kingdoms. I was there when their hearts broke while the war erupted. I was there when Lyanna was inconsolable with grief over the death of her father and brother, and I was there when Rhaegar brought her comfort and assurances." Arthur eyes were bitingly cold as he watched Eddard shy away from his words, too stubborn to believe them.

"In the time I knew her, Lyanna showed herself to be strong willed, and the iron underneath the beauty was enough that she and I sparred twice. She rode often, and from watching the way she rode I can say with confidence that it was her under the helm of the Knight of the Laughing Tree that day in Harrenhal. So, knowing this as I would assume her brother would, do you honestly think that Lyanna Stark would allow herself to be kidnapped?" Arthur leaned across the small gap between himself and Eddard, gripping the northern lords shoulder tightly as they continued to glare at one another. "Those babes are the product of the love of both mother and father. Remember that Lord Stark." Arthur growled out. "Remember that they are all you have left of Lady Lyanna's love."

With his piece said, the knight released Eddard's shoulder and spurred his horse on, the town now bearing down on them. "We'll rest here for the night." Arthur announced over his shoulder while Eddard stewed, heartbreak and scandal in his eyes as the realization of what Arthur's words had meant. It meant that Robert had lied. The war was all because of a lie. Roberts's Rebellion, a rebellion that cost the lives of thousands, was built on a lie.

* * *

The inn was better than most inns found on the roads of Westeros. Yes, there was some unsavory faces in the crowd who had perked up at the sight of all the armor the northmen and Arthur wore, and the handmaiden, Ryah, turned several heads. But they were turned away by the sight of Dawn, The Sword Of The Morning being well known in his home country. The food was decent as well, better than the northern men had eaten during campaign, but not quite like eating at the hold of a noble house.

The inn had only three rooms spare, leaving the traveling party to share two to a room. Arthur shared with Howland, the lord of House Reed wishing to keep an eye on their enemy-turned-friend, while William shared lodgings with Ryah the handmaiden, the two of them taking a young maiden of the inn who knew how to stitch flesh to tend to William. This left Eddard, after his insistence, with the nursemaid, Wylla, and the twins. It seemed that he refused to let them out of his sight.

The door to the room creaked open slowly, Eddard and Wylla staring within, Wylla carrying the babes while Ned lugged their packs into the room. As he placed the packs at the foot of the bed, Ned cast his gaze about the room with narrowed eyes. The bed was small, just large enough for a lone person, pressed against the wall. To the right, there was a small desk with twin candles and a chair, while the rooms window sat low in the wall facing the door, a squat, empty chest resting underneath it.

He grunted. It'd do.

"I'll take the chair." He rumbled, pulling the wooden chair from under the desk and placing it next to a wall for him to lean on. Wylla nodded, staying silent as she took a seat on the bed and began rocking the two twins to sleep in her arms. Eddard watched them intently, eyeing them thoughtfully as he struggled to grasp the right words he would tell Catlyn when he returned to her in a few months time.

He knew he had a son already, he'd received ravens from his wife, the woman he barely knew, about their son. He had been born not even a moon before today, two and a half weeks old. Catlyn hadn't known what to name their son with Eddard absent, so she had chosen something she had hoped he would be pleased with, naming him Robb, in honor of Eddard's brother in all but blood, Robert Baratheon.

Eddard smiled to himself. His son, Robb Stark. Apparently he favored his mothers side of the family, with brown-red hair and blue eyes, but he didn't care. He had a son. Robert had been delighted to hear that Eddard's son had been named after him. Yes, the two had drunk themselves silly that night. It was the first time Eddard had ever gotten truly drunk, and whilst he found the experience quite novel, he didn't wish to repeat it.

But now, looking at Lyanna's children, he felt a sense of suffocating anxiety. Would they get along with Robb? How would Catlyn treat them? Had either of them inherited the madness of their fathers family? The questions set him on edge. Ned watched as the Wylla fed the tired babes, gently smiling down at them as she did so.

It was with a frown as he took in their coloring once more. They took after Lyanna in many ways. They were just as pale as she had been, his younger sister never seeming to darken no matter how much time she spent in the sun, and they had her hair too. It wasn't too long, but he could see the curl in that Onyx hair. But then there were the eyes. The older one had the Stark family eyes, a dark grey that seemed to stare off into the distance, solemn and brooding, just like his own. That brought a smile to Ned's face.

But the younger twin sparked worry. His eyes were a deep, royal purple with flecks of black. The weren't distant seeing like his brothers, but quick as they darted about, drinking in every detail they saw. They set him on edge, especially when they locked onto him. It felt like the babe was studying him deeply, those purple eyes screaming Targaryen, yet those black flecks left him thinking of Lyanna. Those eyes set him on edge and brought him memories of his sister all at once. It unnerved him.

Wylla smiled as she caught the younger twin and Eddard staring at one another. "He seems to like watching things, this one does." She said quietly before shifting her eyes to the older babe. "But his big brother seems to be more of a thinker. Don't you, little Aegon?" She giggled in that strange voice women used when talking to babes.

"Don't call him that." Eddard muttered, but with his ill-used voice and quite tone, it sounded like baritone scolding. Wylla's eyes widened, lips bitten together as she nodded.

"Apologies m'lord." She quickly uttered.

Eddard sighed as he realized that he'd frightened the poor woman. He was young, merely twenty namedays, yet he was already a lord, and he had a quieter, more hardened demeanor than either his father or older brother ever had. He sometimes forgot that. He forgot that the quite man's voice could be a weapon on those unaccustomed to hearing him speak. Most importantly, he forgot to use the softer voice his father had often used when merely speaking to someone.

"No, there's no need to apologies." He sighed. "It's just I think it best to forsake the names their mother gave them. It would not be within the best of interests to return to Winterfell with two sons with Targaryen names." He reasoned. Wylla nodded quitely in understanding.

"Do you have any names in mind then, m'lord?" She asked in a more subdued manner than Eddard would have preferred, yet the question struck him unprepared.

"It's not something I have thought on, unfortunately." He admitted, and so put the matter int thought. Perhaps naming the boys after persons close to him would endear the babes to them? It was a simple line of thought, and one that immediately bore fruit. Jon Arryn, a man who had become like a second father to Ned, fostering him in the Vale. That was simple, he'd name the oldest one Jon, after the man he greatly admired and respected.

The second was difficult. He wanted to reserve the names of his father and brother, Rickard and Brandon, for his own sons. But if he named the younger twin after either of them, it might cement them as his own children. No, the names would go to his blood sons first. Perhaps he could name him after someone in Catlyn's family? No, his wife would be insulted that he'd named babes he would claim as his blood after her family without her blood in them.

He sighed. Never before had Ned figured naming a babe would be so difficult. Perhaps, if not his generation of Starks, what of those who came before? Yes, yes that could work. Eddard watched as Wylla put the young babes to rest in the bed before climbing in herself, nestling the day old babes closely to her. Slowly, he was going through the list of names that his family had carried. Brandon, Alaric, Edric, Edwyle, Beron, Torrhen, Cregan... Eddard frowned, looking at the purple eyed babe as he drifted off to sleep.

Torrhen Stark was known as the King Who Knelt, as he submitted to Aegon the Conqueror without a fight. As a boy, Eddard had though him foolish and cowardly, but as a man who had seen war, he could see the sense. He had no quarrel with Aegon, he feared him for sure, but he knelt. He saved the lives of his men from death by dragon fire when he knelt. Many didn't agree with him, but Torrhen was smart in what he did. Smart, just like the eyes of that babe sleeping in the arms of his nursemaid. Torrhen...

"I have your names then..." He whispered under his breath, a small smile on his lips.

"What have you decided on, m'lord?" Wylla asked, startling Eddard somewhat. Her eyes were closed and breathes steady. He had assumed her to be asleep, but it seemed he assumed wrong.

"The oldest will be Jon, after a man who had been like a father to me, Jon Arryn of the Vale. And the younger, he shall be named Torrhen, after my ancestor Torrhen Stark, the first Warden in the North." Eddard's voice was soft, barley a whisper as not to wake the babes.

"After the King who Knelt?" Wylla asked, cracking an eye open to peer up at the young lord.

"Nay." Eddard said solemnly. "After the last King in the North, who accepted the dishonor of kneeling to a foreign invader to save his people from a horrible fate." In spite of the darkness and the thinck blinds covering the window, Ned could see the faintest of smiles on her lips.

"A man who accepted dishonor to save lives?" She asked, almost playfully. "A man like yourself, m'lord." Eddard's eyes widened, surprised by the woman's words. He found it hard to say anything back, however, as he found them to be oddly true. To save to lives of these two babes from a man he had long considered a brother, he would be dishonoring himself by naming them his bastards. "Goodnight, Lord Stark." Wylla whispered, closing her eye once more, yet her almost smug smile stayed.

"Goodnight, Wylla." Eddard heard himself whisper back as he leaned backwards until he rested against the wall, head tilted up to see the ceiling. "Goodnight, Jon and Torrhen. Goodnight, my sons."

It was the next day, long after they had saddled their horses and rode out of the small travelers stop that Eddard informed the rest of his companions of his decision on the boys names. His bannermen approved, as he had thought they would have, but it was Arthur who had taken him by surprise. As while he had initially seemed to dislike the idea of naming Aegon after a man who had been something akin to a father to Eddard, a man who had betrayed the crown, Ned had caught the slight smile at hearing that the younger twin would be named Torrhen, and while he wasn't sure if his ears had been deceiving him or not, he could have sworn he had heard Arthur's voice on the wind.

"The name has a rich history, at least."

* * *

Ashara worried at her bottom lip. She was seated in the solar of her father, stiff backed and still. She had been confined to her quarters in recent times by her father, the now late Lord Galrod Dayne, ever since she had returned from The Tourney with a child in her belly. He had shouted and screeched at her, ranting and raving about her being dishonored by some drunkard sellsword, something that Ashara had taken great offense to. He had demanded to know the name or even the face of her defiler, yet she had remained steadfast in her stony silence. She would not betray the man who had stolen her heart.

Of course, that was a heart that he been wrung out and crushed. The babe she had carried, the babe she had cherished as the seal of the love she had shared, had not lived to breath her first breath. Her grief had nearly killed her. She had stood atop the tallest tower of Starfall as tears freely flowed from her eyes. Her toes had hovered over the edge of the stone beneath her feet, the wind whipping as her hair and dress, yet it was a single voice, a warm muttering in her ear that had stopped her from stepping forward. A memory of such tender warmth that she couldn't help the smile that bloomed under the memory she recalled.

The wolves of the Tourney. How handsome and beautiful they were. The oldest, the Wild Wolf they had called him, was the forefront of attention of course. He was bold and never shied away from taking what he wanted. The She-Wolf, so pretty was she, yet she too had the Wolfs-Blood of her older brother. She did as she pleased, took what she pleased and damned the consequences. Then there was the youngest, the Young-Pup. Thin and full of laughter, he was the Wild Wolf's shadow, seemingly in awe of his brother.

But it was the middle brother that had snared Ashara's attention. The Quite Wolf. Silent and watching, it had taken her by surprise when the Wild Wolf approached her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench. She had found such shyness to be rather attractive, his adorable reservations leading to her being the outgoing of the two as they danced the night away.

Such fondness had spared her the decision to take one step forward, an now here she sat, waiting in patience. A raven had arrived from Skyreach not two days ago, announcing the arrival of her brother and the man she had given her virtue to, Lord Eddard Stark. Such an announcement alone had her nervous. She knew that her brother was of the Kingsguard, and that Ned had fought for the Usurper. As much as she was loath to admit it, she had thought that they would have fought, rather than rode to her together.

Yes, she had revealed the relationship that had blossomed between herself and the Quite Wolf during The Tourney during her correspondence with her brother, yet she knew such knowledge would dissuade two warriors on opposing sides. Though the worries ended not there. They had requested to meet in private, with as few people as possible knowing of their visit. It worried her to know that her brother wished for secrecy. Discussions meant for few ears were seldom of good happenings, especially when he was supposed to be guarding the pregnant Lyanna Stark.

Smoothing our her royal purple dress, Ashara took a deep breath. It was not long afterward when the sound of rushing footsteps clambering up the staircase of the tower of the study that heralded the coming of a servant. There was a brisk knock on the door, one that the Lady Ashara welcomed inside. A young maiden hurried into the study, her dress clutched in her hands and her face flushed from her flight up the stairs. She offered Ashara a quick curtsy, her head bowed as she spoke. "My Lady, your Lord brother has arrived, along with the Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Howland Reed and Lord William Dustin." She quickly breathed out, taking Ashara by surprise.

"M-My Lady." The maiden began again. "They are in the company of two handmaiden a-and..." She trailed off, her head raising to show her confliction.

"Out with it, my dear." Ashara encouraged gently, both fearing what was to be said and anxious to hear it.

"The handmaidens carry a babe each, my Lady." The servant quickly answered, and Ashara felt herself lean back in surprise. Of all the possibilities that she had thought of, that was not one of them.

"Babes..?" She whispered to herself, turning to look out the small window. It offered no view of the courtyard that her brother and lover would have rode into, merely a piece of the endless blue sky of Dorne, yet she felt it a comfort to gaze out of. "See them to my study, please." She whispered, yet her voice carried enough. With another curtsy and a hush 'My Lady' before rushing out the door, making sure to close it softly behind her before soaring down the steps of the tower.

Ashara let out a long breath as she heard the door click closed, the tension her body had stiffened with seemed to lax a small bit, yet she still sat rigid and uneasily. Her brother had journeyed with three northern lords, two servants and two babes. Surely this was the build up to a ill conceived joke? But there was little she could do but wait.

It was during this time of waiting that she was reminded of how alone she was in her home. Her father, lord Galrod, dead in the war, her younger sister, Allyria, having been sent to Sunspear to be kept safe by the Martells until the war had ended, her oldest brother and now lord of Starfall, Alistair, having been taken captive by the Usurper after the Battle of the Trident. Yet now her brother Arthur was coming home to her. She could almost weep from the joy.

It was then that another knock came at the door, Ashara having been too caught up in her thoughts to pay attention to the sound of footsteps rising up the stairs. "My Lady." Came the voice of a different serving girl.

"Come in." Ashara welcomed, cutting the serving maiden off before she listed the guests Arthur had brought with him. Turning to face the door, Ashara was greeted by the sight of the handmaiden, this one younger, shorter and thinner than the last, opening the door and curtsying before the lords who entered. "Arthur!" Ashara breathed out, rushing out of her seat to wrap her arms around her brother. The the hells with propriety and image, she hadn't seen her brother in nigh on a year and had feared of his death in the war. She damn well missed him and she didn't care if the world knew about it, ignoring all to do just that, even if his riding leather smelt of sweat and dirt. "It's so good to see you again." She whispered into his ear.

"And you as well, sweet sister." Arthur smiled a he returned her hug, yet did his best not to hurt her and he embraced her. He knew better than anyone how uncomfortable unwashed riding leather could be. The leather stiffened in odd and annoying points, poking into not only himself but those close enough too. "But." He began somberly, ending the warm greeting much too quick for his liking. "I bring ill tidings." He sighed.

Turning about, he raised his arm in introduction to his companions, catching the last of the handmaiden as she ducked out the door, shutting it behind her as she went. Good. He wanted as few people as possible to know of what would be said in this room.

"May I introduce Lord William Dustin." He began, gesturing to the large, hulking brute of a man with a beard and large and bushy as any shrub Ashara had seen. William gave her a slight bow, uttering his greeting softly into his beard, yet he retained his saddened look. "The Lord Howland Reed." Arthur continued, the short, thin man in green wrapping and a short, unkempt beard.

"My Lady." He muttered with a polite bow, his thick northern accent unhidden.

"And finally." Arthur said, the hint of an amused smile as he pointed to the last lord in the room. "I believe you are well antiquated with Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North." To his credit, the Quite Wolf shifted uncomfortably, coughing lightly before bowing to Ashara.

"My Lady." He nearly whispered, and Ashara wanted to smile. It brought her no end of joy to know that the so called rough, savage barbarian of the North could be made so shy just by her mere presence, yet she couldn't manage to find happiness. A small, cold it welled up within her as she looked into Eddard's eyes, only to find her breathless daughters eyes staring back at her, and she was forced to look away as pain ached in her heart.

"My lords." Arthur continued, the hint of a smile on his lips. "May I present my dear sister, the Lady Ashara Dayne."

"My lords." Ashara forced a smile onto her face, curtsying to lords William and Howland in return before turning to Eddard. "It is good to see you again, Ned." She said quitely, referring to the name that only those who know him best. The others shifted uncertainly, clearly unsure of what was going to happen between the two, and it was then that Ashara realized that Arthur had spilled the truth of Eddard and Ashara to those gathered. Her fingers curled into a tight fists at the thought. She would have words with her brother about how one would go about keeping secrets, because apparently he could not.

"Now, with the pleasantries out of the way." Arthur sighed as he turned to his little sister. "Shara, we need your help." He said gravely, and suddenly Ashara felt her anger at her brother ebb away. He only refereed to her as Shara in his darkest times. Such times were few and far in between, but they did happen. When his heart was broken by the daughter of one of their vassal houses, when he first killed a man, when he was offered a position in the Kingsguard away from his home and when she had been forced to consul him through letters after his best friend, the Crown Prince Rhaegar, had been killed by the Usurper.

"Arthur, what is this about?" She asked, resting what she hoped to be a comforting hand on his arm.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur looked directly into her eyes. "Lady Lyanna Stark is dead." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet they felt a hammer blow to her, and she felt an unbearable pain for her brother. If there was one thing she knew about her brother, it was that his will was unyielding, his resolve unmoving. He would work tirelessly to make sure what he wants done is done. It had been a trait that distinguished him from any the knight in the seven kingdoms, leading to her father naming him The Sword of the Morning.

Ashara also knew that he, along with Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent had been tasked by Rhaegar himself to guard the life of his love, Lyanna Stark. For him to have failed his best friend, for Lyanna to have died on his watch... Her heart broke for her brother. But that also sparked a series of questions. Eddard, nor his bannermen, would ever think of hurting Lyanna, let alone kill her. Yet, neither Arthur, Oswell or Gerold would betray their prince like that. Everyone who would have been present would have been there to help Lyanna. So just how could they all fail when there was no one who would hurt her?"

"How?" She managed.

Arthur took a deep breath and turned to the three lords. "Come." He ordered, raising his arm to beckon someone closer. It was then that Ashara finally noticed the two handmaidens that had stood, sheltered behind the three north men. She frowned as she watched them come forward, each carrying a bundle of cloth that she knew to carry a babe. It then clicked into place.

"On her birthing bed?" She whispered, her hands moving to cover her mouth, and she felt weak in the knees. It had to be some cruel irony, the Seven playing their twisted, disgusting games with mankind, for she could see it as little else. Ashara's child had been cursed to never breath, never to grow old and beautiful. Yet here were Lyanna's children, brought into this world but never to see the smile of their true mother, never to hear her voice. Oh how sick fate could be.

"Twin sons." Arthur said quitely.

"Do you..." She gulped nervously, her hands wringing themselves at the prospect. She would do it. Oh gods she would do it in a heart beat, but it felt wrong to ask, but she wanted to. "Do you wish for me to care for them?" She asked pensively, yet reluctantly. She immediately regretted asking, however, as she saw the shift in Eddard. His eyes darkening, darting over to the babe closer to him.

"No." He muttered, and Ashara felt her heart drop. "That is not why we are here." Reaching out, Eddard brushed the bundled cloth from the babes head, letting Ashara see the tuft of ebony locks on his small head. "This is the younger. I have named him Torrhen." Eddard began, gazing down at the babe with a different love than Ashara had seen in him. When he had looked at her at Harrenhal, it was a smoldering, silent love that would shake the earth. But what she saw now, it was a deep adoration that would shatter the world if this child was hurt.

"I plan on naming them as my bastards and raising them in Winterfell with me. Jon and Torrhen Snow. It should be easy enough, they have Lyanna's coloring, the pale skin and dark hair, but Torrhen has his fathers eyes." Eddard looked up from the resting babe, looking directly into Ashara's eyes. "They are a deep purple, just like Rhaegar." It was then that Ashara knew what was being asked of her, and it hurt. It hurt deeply.

She had lost her child, her daughter. She had been ready to be a mother, eager for the chance, but the choice had been ripped from her to cruelly by the Stranger. Now here, she had been shown that she could have that chance again. True, they would not be from her own womb, yet what should that matter? A babe was a babe and needed the love of a mother. Yet now, after seeing one of the beautiful children herself, she was being told that she could not raise it her own, merely put her name to it to better a fable for their cover. She had been given hope, only to have it pulled so callously away.

Eddard shifted uncomfortably. He, like everyone else in the room, could see how Ashara had taken his words. He had hurt her by asking such, and that made him angry. It wasn't his idea, why should he be the one to present it to her like it was?! He glared at Arthur, the knight nodding.

"Shara..." Arthur began, pulling her into another embrace and turning the two of them away from the uncomfortable northerners and handmaidens. "Please, the children's lives are at stake here. We need your help." He whispered into her ear. "If the Usurper found out about them, he would declare war upon whoever sheltered them. The Spider has eyes and ears everywhere." Slowly, he began rocking himself and Ashara from side to side, and Eddard's eyes fixed on the sight. That was the same sway he had done when he had held her so at The Tourney. "It would be safer for the babes and for yourself if they were raised in Winterfell."

Arthur turned his head to look over his shoulder, catching Eddard's eye as he kept holding Ashara held close. Eddard settled into his usual stoic expression, lips pressed into a grim line and his eyes holding a deep seeded brooding. Robert had told him that he looked all too much like a mourning man when he looked as such, and that it unsettled him, yet Eddard had seen the look on his own father all his life, that jaded look of acceptance. It felt natural to him, and it helped him feel closer to his father to adopt even just some of his mannerisms.

Although nestled into her brothers embrace, Eddard could still see Ashara nodding. He felt rotten on the inside, like a vile hand had gripped him. He had known of Ashara's pain, it was one he wore the shadow of himself. It was his child that had never breathed as much as it was hers, yet he never looked upon the babe like she did, he never saw the child limp and still. He knew the pain of knowing he had lost something that would have changed him deeply, yet here he was, parading two babes just two weeks old in front of her, asking her to bury her pain for their benefit and not giving her anything in return. A rotten feeling indeed.

"You speak true, Arthur." She said softly, and Eddard could have sworn he saw the glimmer of tears as she stood on her own, but the sight vanished as she turned away, looking out through the window and up to the blue sky. "I will support you claims. I will call them my own." She announced, the sliver of bitterness going unnoticed by the men in the room.

"Thank you, sweet sister." Arthur breathed out.

"You should stay here for the night, however." Ashara continued. "It would be wise to let the babes be seen with me. The more people who believe the children are mine the better." She reasoned, turning back to face the her brother and the lords. "It would do good for people to see me giving our children for you to raise in Winterfell at the feast. I would ask that you..." She faltered briefly. "That you leave my children with me until then. To give the best impression."

Eddard looked to Arthur, the breif look turning to agreement before Ned nodded. "Agreed." Ned said, nodding. Silently, he watched as the lords parted as Ashara made her way to her adopted sons. Taking Jon first, she cooed happily, swaying him slowly as Wylla brought Torrhen closer.

"Hello Jon, Tor." She smiled, and Ned caught sight of the unbound love he saw her watch the children with, and his heart yearned for the night he had spent with her in Harrenhal. Ashara Dayne, the woman he would crown queen of the world if her could, the woman he wanted to love for the kingdoms to see. Yet he couldn't bound by honor and a loveless marriage to a woman he didn't know.

Yes, he had sired a son with her on their wedding night, but he didn't love her. In time, he might. In time, they could grow to love each other boundlessly. But now was not that time. Now he stood there, the last of the men to leave, as the woman he loved so greatly smiled so beautifully down at babes that looked so much like himself. Eddard Stark's heart ached, and he left the study, unknowing of the smiling purple eyes watching his back all the while.

* * *

Eddard sighed as he stripped of his clothes as sunk into the soft bed in his room, a smile as the warmth from the feast had yet to die down.

The feast had been an awkward event at first, with Ashara walking in carrying one of two babes and announcing her children to her household, many of whom hadn't even known her to be pregnant, and naming Eddard the father. It had taken a breif explanation from her, but the staff and guards had readily accepted her word as fact, and Eddard had breathed easily. Now, here he lay in a guest room of Starfall, head swimming with noisy thoughts and rich, overly sweet and spiced Dornish wine. He much preferred northern ale, but he couldn't say no to such a fine drop.

But it seemed that Ashara had quite the liking for the wines of her home. Throughout the feast, the steadily rising din of the households talk grew louder and louder, wine flowed like rivers and the feast grew more rowdy. It seemed, as Eddard watched on from the high table, that although the loyalists of Dorne had lost the war, they still held true their love of celebration, which grew the more wine they drank. It seemed their worry didn't exist in this room, they simply drank and sung and danced away.

Ned had felt rather out of place, and he'd imagine his bannermen felt the same as they sat stiff backed and weary at his side. Yet that Dornish cheer wasn't limited to the small folk. Slowly, Ned had worked his way through his cups until, in his admittedly wine fueled haze, Eddard found himself smiling, laughing even, at the festivities.

So he drank more, as did his men, and they laughed more, and suddenly Eddard was enjoying himself more than he could ever recall in his memory. He looked to Howland and William and roared with laughter as he watched William, red faced and slurring his words, trying to speak to a giggling serving girl as he braced himself against the table in an effort not to fall from his chair. He was unsuccessful in both pursuits, much to the amusement of the southern men.

The first victim of the nights wine, Ned noted with a grin.

It was not long after that, his cup freshly filled, that he became keenly aware of the feeling of something brushing up against his leg. A quick glance told him that Ashara seemed to ahead of him by a few cups, and the devious smirk on her lips spoke volumes of how the feast had washed her earlier grievances away, her legs creeping further up his underneath the tablecloth.

However it was the look in her eye that had him stay his tongue and simply enjoy her attention. It was that same, smoldering burn in her eyes that he had surrendered to that night in the Tourney. It might have been the wine, it might have been the infectious southern celebrations, but sitting beside her at the high table, even the table of Starfall as opposed to that of Winterfell, he felt a sudden pang in his chest and an odd moment of clarity.

He wanted this moment to last forever. He wanted to stay here, with Ashara. He dreaded returning to the stranger he had wed, but most importantly, he wanted to grasp that fluttering feeling that Ashara seemed to awaken in him with but a glance, and he wanted to hold onto it until his deathbed.

But it was as he now lay there and closed his eyes that he felt himself grow restless. He saw images, memories, across the inside of his eyelids. Memories of Harrenhal and the moment he had laid eyes upon the most beautiful woman in the world. Ashara had been Princess Elia's lady in waiting, yet the princess looked like a mere serving girl in royal dress next to Ashara, who outshone all with the batting of her eyelashes.

Then came the dancing. Oh the smile she wore! Her laughing lavender eyes pulled at his very being, yet he could not help but doubt himself in the face of someone so magnificent. Eventually, his reluctance to even speak to the girl who had so thoroughly snared his watch had caught the attention of his older brother Brandon, the Wild Wolf of the North. It had been with a smug, teasing grin as he strode up to the radiant lady and whispered something sweet into her ear, for Ned blinked and suddenly she in front of him, laughing and leading Eddard by the hand to the center of the dance.

He had felt numb, as though all his inhibitions had melted away in the wake of her presence, and thus they had become so carried away in one another that when the music stopped, they had refused to leave one another be and had taken to aimlessly wandering about the grounds. They talked much that night, topics ranging from big to small until they had nothing left to talk of, yet they refused to stop listening to one another's voices.

Eddard sighed in his bed. He could quite easily admit that it had been the best night of his life.

They had made love that night, passionate love born from the promises of those not tied by oaths or bound by allegiance. A love born of times of peace. A love he wished so greatly for once again. Eddard tossed over in his bed and took a deep breath, but it helped little as a warm breeze fluttered into his room. He could swear that he could still smell her, that sweet smell of lavender and spring meadows. The feel of her skin on his, her warm olive complexion small and soft under his fingertips. The way her breath tickled his neck and ears as she whispered her promises to him, and the taste of her lips and tongue after he swore himself to her.

Sighing, Ned curse the folly of his memories as that damned warm breeze swept through the door once more, and his eyes snapped open. Eddard bolted upright in his bed and his eyes were met by the sight of an angel. She stood in the door way, the silver light of the moon her halo and the glow of the stars casting the silhouette of the deepest desires of any man. She wore a sinfully thin robe that hide nothing from the light behind her, allowing him to bask in her shape as she daintily stepped into the room and the door gently swung closed behind her.

Ned's breath hitched as she crept onto his bed, the thin fabric falling from her shoulders and onto his blankets as he did. He caught that distinctive scent again; Lavender and spring meadows, yet her breath brought the sweet smell of the finest southern wines. He shuddered as she placed a warm hand on the center of his chest.

"Ashara..." His voice a whisper that he barely managed before she put her hands on either side of his face, and the room fell away. He had never been lost in a kiss like this before, the space between them exploding. His heart kept missing beats, his hands couldn't bring her close enough. They threw caution to the wind and their kiss deepened. Eddard felt her tremble as he tasted her and found himself starving.

They had loved one another before, but it didn't feel like this. They had kissed before, but it didn't burn them so. Maybe it lasted minutes, maybe it lasted an hour, but Eddard didn't care. All that he knew was that kiss, all he wanted was the sting as she etched red art across his back, all that mattered was how soft her skin was as they pressed themselves together, and it wouldn't be until later that either of them realized that fear spawned within them that night. Fear that they would never be able to love like this again.

* * *

The Dornish morning was far colder than Eddard would have expected. The sky was cloudless, the morning light only just breaking over the horizon and the air had a chill that left a soft bit on the tip of his nose, the promise of a frost. It didn't bother the northern men, though. If anything, Eddard thought, This dawn chill was a pleasant reminder of home. He could almost close his eyes and see the small, soft tufts of a summer snow falling from the colorless sky.

The whinnying of a horse distracted his thoughts. He looked to see William atop his large red stallion, a gift from his wife, the Lady Barbrey Dustin. It was a fitting steed, Eddard noted, as William, the large man that he was, would have looked foolishly disproportionate on any other horse. Howland, the ever loyal Crannogman, was saddled beside the large northern lord.

They were both of the same mind as Eddard; They wanted to leave early and return to the North. Return home. While Ned would admit that their excessive drinking and eating last night may have hindered their early rise, it didn't stop them, and just as the first silver-grey streaks of sunlight touched the sky, the northern men were up and fixing their saddlebags, Eddard in particular not trusting anyone but himself with his cargo. His leg subconsciously twitched at the thought, his calf brushing against the wooden corner to the small chest carrying his nephe- his _sons_ inheritance. Plans for what he would do with them yet eluded him.

"Are all northerners such early risers?" Eddard frowned as he slowly looked over his left shoulder. Sure enough, his thin lips pressed into an amused smirk as he trotted up to his side on his own mount with Dawn at his hip, was Ser Arthur Dayne.

"I would think that the famed Sword of the Morning would be accustomed to early mornings. Or is that just a title?" Ned challenged, though Arthur merely chuckled.

"I must admit, my lord, I had hoped for more of a rest this morning after last night festivities." The knight reasoned as he leaned forward, now side by side with the Warden of the North. "Might I inquire as to what distance we plan on covering today?" Eddard paused.

"We?" He asked.

"Yes, lord Stark." Arthur grinned. "We."

"You would come with us?" Ned pressed, and Arthur's jovial mood seemed to vanish.

"You have your duty, Stark." He muttered, looking about the yard slowly as to make sure that none heard him. "I have mine. My oaths still stand, even if you would take their birth right from them." The slight did not go unnoticed as Ned glowered at him.

"And what would you say to those who ask why The Sword of the Morning is accompanying someone who would rightly be his enemy? Do you think this would not raise suspicion?"

"Oh it would." Arthur smiled, briefly looking over his shoulder to the two babes who were currently wrapped up in so much cloth that they could be mistaken for bundles of linen in the arms of their nursemaids. "But I was bested in single combat and spared." The knight lied smoothly. "I am bound by a life debt, and by the blood of my nephews. I will make for the North with you, lord Stark."

Eddard didn't like how thought out Arthur's plan seemed to be. He must had concocted this on their journey from the tower to Starfall, and scheming like that never sat well with the Quite Wolf. "And what, pray tell, would you see yourself doing in the North?" He finally asked.

"I thought that would be obvious." Arthur chuckled. "I would train my nephews as soon as they can pick up a stick and, should you wish it, your own children as well. You train their minds, I will train their bodies. A fair deal, if I do say so myself."

Ned grit his teeth together. He didn't want to take Arthur with him. The knight was reputed to be the best swordsman in the seven kingdoms, yet just as famous as his skill was his friendship with the late Crown Prince. It was too suspicious for him to suddenly leave for Winterfell with the lord of the northern kingdom, especially when that lord was one of the three figureheads of the rebellion that he killed his best friend. Nonetheless, not many knew the Sword of the Morning personally. No one would know what he would do in the wake of his friends death, and to dedicate himself to the well being of his nephews seemed a honorable and noble deed, the stuff the knights of tales would do; Set aside their personal grievances for the sake of the innocent. Perhaps this would work?

Eddard sighed as he looked backed to his new sons in the arms of the two nursemaids who had agreed to accompany the northerners. This was all for their sake. Their and Lyanna's, his sweet sister who would never get to see her babes smile and cry as they stumbled through life. His chest rung hollow at the thought, and he forced his hand still as he thought to her body laying across the back of his very horse.

"They're names..." Arthur muttered to himself. "The plump one is Leia, and the thin girl is Jose, yes?" Eddard's eyes briefly flickered to the two women holding his sons.

"Aye."

"Well." The knight started as he sat straighter in his saddle and urged his steed forward. "If Ashara trusts them, then I shall. I assume you are of the same mind?" He called over his shoulder as he, Howland and William made of the gate. Eddard frowned at the comment as Arthur twisted in his saddle to shoot the lord a sly, knowing smile. "Though next time, I would recommend kissing her. That way the rest of us could at least get some sleep!"

Eddard glared at the retreating back of the Dornish knight, the jostling of William's shoulders not going unnoticed, not matter how much he stifled his laughter. He would have feigned ignorance, however, if he didn't see the smiles on the faces of the guards at the gate and the nursemaids as they made their way past him. By The Old Gods and New, if Arthur was always like this, then this would be a long journey indeed.

* * *

**Chapter 1 done.**  
**Please let me know you thoughts.  
Updates will be sporadic as I will be writing whenever the mood strikes, so there will be no consistency to the chapters updates.**  
**Till next time.**  
**Cheers.**


	2. Chapter 2

**So this story has taken off better than I expected, and I'd like to say a short thanks to you guys for that.  
I don't know where I'm going with pairings at the moment, there's no solid plans for them yet, but I come up wit many I'll let you guys know.  
Anyway, here's chapter 2**

* * *

**289 AC.**

Arthur hated the Greyjoys in that moment. He hated them, yes, but he could also understand them. The Greyjoys had spat upon Robert in an attempt of secession, an open rebellion, by burning Lannisport to the ground, sinking the anchored Lannister fleet and attacking Seagard. It was foolhardy, stupid and ill planned is their defeat at Seagard was anything to go by, yet he could sympathize. He hated Robert as well.

Nevertheless, Arthur hated the Greyjoys and all their accursed Iron born because their stupid bid for independence was what led to him holding close the two he had sworn to protect, an arm around each as they held onto him tightly, arms locked around his neck and faces buried into his shoulder and neck. "Now now, that's no way for you to behave." Arthur chided lightly as he let the twins go. "You have to be brave. We need you staying here and holding down the castle while we're gone, you understand?" He asked.

Jon and Torrhen, or Tor as everyone called him, nodded vigorously, though their eyes were still wide and Torrhen's looked watery. Arthur smiled warmly and ruffled their hair affectionately. The twins were six namedays old now, both young and full of that innocent, childish energy that never seemed to run out. Jon had taken much after his mothers family, a stocky and broad shouldered boy that he was, while Torrhen took after his father, taller than his brother by a few inches and more knobbly joints that he had yet to grow into. "We understand." Jon said quitely, and Torrhen, ever the quite one, nodded again.

They had been like this since the moment they could talk. Inseparable from one another, never far apart, and always looking to either his or Eddard's approval. Unfortunately, their 'father' was someone who gave approval to very little, the stoic bastard that he was. But Arthur knew he couldn't change it, so he did his best to fill in the void. He had at first told himself that it was because it was his duty, but in time he relented to the truth. The twins needed someone who would tell them they had done well, that they had done him proud. So he did it, because nobody else would.

Because the moment that they had walked through the gates of Winterfell for the first time, himself and Ned followed by two nursemaids, the boys had been scorned by the entire castle. A stain on the great Eddard Stark's honor. If ever he needed fury, Arthur only need think on the treatment that twins had been forced to endure at the hands of these northern fools.

If only they knew the truth.

Taking a deep breath, the knight stood up. He was dressed in his riding leathers, his horse readied and pack secured with the rest of the men-at-arms of Winterfell and the knights gathered by the bannermen of House Stark behind him. He nodded to the boys, a sad smile on his lips, before he turned and made for his horse. All around him, knights and lords of the northern houses were either joking and mindlessly chattering amongst themselves or giving their farewells to their loved ones, some more solemn than others.

It was understandable; they were going to war. The Greyjoys had burned the Lannister fleet in their harbor, scorched Lannisport and attacked Seagard before raiding up and down the Westerlands coast. Not that Arthur cared. If anything, he sorely wished that the Greyjoys had done worse to the Westerlands. Any attack there was a wound to the Lannisters, and he would happily pay in gold dragons to see those backstabbing, proud shits suffer. With that in mind, Arthur lamented that the Iron born hadn't sacked Casterly Rock. A pity, really.

The lords of the North had answered the call to arms by the Lord of Winterfell quickly, and within three weeks the houses to the north and east of Winterfell had gathered with their men and camped their soldiers outside the ancient castle, the houses to the west and south gathering men to join the host as they marched to the iron isles. It was in this gathering that some of the more notable northern lords had thought to bring the younger generations together by bringing heirs, daughters and wives to Winterfell while they marched off to war.

It was, in Arthur's eyes, a smart move. All the heirs of the larger northern houses were gathered in the one place to mingle and become acquainted, or even friends. A surefire way to secure solid alliances in the future. Of the children gathered, Arthur knew Alys Karstark was being left in Winterfell while her father and three brothers left for battle, Dacey and Alysane Mormont, the elder nieces of lord Jorah Mormont no doubt sent to charm Robb, and Jon Umber, called the Smalljon, son of lord Jon Umber, called the Greatjon.

It was an interesting mix, with Smalljon being the eldest at ten and three, followed by Dacey, Alysane and then the twins, Robb being the same age and Alys a year younger. At first, Arthur had been unsure about how the twins would be received by the children of the other noble houses, yet it seemed that any fear he had were misplaced. The only one who had showed any outward signs of displeasure at the bastardy of the twins was Smalljon.

Swinging himself up onto his horse, Arthur looked back to the twins to see them waving, brave smiles plastered on their faces, and Arthur waved back. Above the twins, standing on the balcony that Eddard loved to watch his castle from atop of so often, stood the lady Stark, Caetlyn, a toddler with a tuft of rust colored hair in her arms, babe in her belly and little Robb, the heir to Winterfell, bouncing up and down in excitement as he tugged on his mothers skirts with one hand and wave down to the soldiers with the other.

Following the small boys eyes, Arthur found Eddard Stark sitting in his saddle, back straight and a wiry smile on his face as he waved back to his son, and Arthur's mood darkened. Eddard Stark gave his true born son a smile and wave, yet the twins, who he had announced as his bastard children, he gave nothing but a solemn nod.

A shout came from the east gate of the castle and the last of the men saddled up. Eddard and his gathered northern lords looked to the gate as it creaked and groaned open, Winter town sprawling out before them in snow capped houses and stores. Taking a deep breath of that chilled northern air, Arthur spurred his horse onwards with the rest of the men and fell into formation as they exited the gate. Eddard led the column of men, with his bannermen of Houses Glover, Mormont, Karstark, Umbar, Manderly, Bolton and many others marched behind him.

Riding behind the lords were the knights, Ser Arthur at the front with a knight from a small house in Winterfell, Ser Rodrick Cassel, to his left left. Casting a look back over his shoulder, Arthur caught a glimpse of the twins watching the soldiers go, grim looks on their faces. They were so young, only six, yet they seemed to know that soldiers leaving for war meant death was to come, much unlike Robb, who at the same age as the twins had asked his father for a trophy from the Iron islands. It was said that bastards grew faster than true born children, an from what he had seen, Arthur knew it to be true.

It was a cold reminder of how harsh the world could be at times. He had, over the past six years, come to see the twins as his sons as much as he saw them as his charges. Eddard may have claimed them, but Arthur was the one to put a wooden sword in their hands the moment they were able to hold a stick. Arthur was the one who had asked Maester Luwin to teach them their letters and sums earlier than most. It was Arthur who found them a musician to teach them the arts. Arthur was the one to help them through writing their letters to Ashara and it was Arthur who had spent every day with the boys. Yet no matter how much he had grown to love the twins, the rest of the north refused to look at them any differently, simply with disdain.

If only they knew.

"You look as though are marching to your death, Ser Arthur." A small, murmured chuckle rippled down the column of knights, and Arthur glared over at the man riding by his side. Ser Rodrick Cassel was an older man, a light dusting of grey appearing in his thick black hair and whiskers, yet for the life of him Arthur could not see what possessed someone to knight him. He was stout and burly, strong to boot, but he had seen his martial skills in the training yard, and he was not impressed.

"We march to war, Ser Rodrick." Arthur sighed. "The point of war is killing until you have no more enemies, yes? Therefore, people will die. It may be me, it may be you. Only the gods know for certain." He said solemnly, and the truth of his words seem to dampen the words of those who had laughed at him moments ago.

"You're afraid, then?" The Greatjon scoffed as he turned in his saddle to face the southern knight, a look of disgust on his face as though the notion was cowardly.

"I do not fear death, lord Umber." Arthur growled out as he kept his face schooled while staring down the great monster of a man, his fingers absently curling around Dawn. "I fear not being there for those I would leave behind." With those words, a grim air fell upon the host, each man thinking to those back home, of faces and loved ones they may never see again should the upcoming battles take a turn for the worse. Arthur watched Ned's shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath. The Stark seeming to have been thinking the same.

"That said." Arthur continued, disliking the miserable cloud that hung above the soldiers now. "I refuse to die until I see them again. I will do what must be done, throw the squids back into the sea in pieces and march home to the smiles and open arms of those I love." He spoke loudly, and the rustle of armor picked up. "I refuse to die until then, come the hells or high water, I will see them again."

Behind him, men straightened in their saddles, making their strengthened resolve heard well and proud. In front of him, he watched Jorah Mormont, a burly bear like lord, nod in agreement.

"Your nephews are lucky boys, Ser Arthur." Lord Rickard Karstark said as he turned about in his saddle from beside Eddard and gave Arthur a respectful nod.

"Thank you, lord Karstark." It was the closest to an apology that he'd get from any northerner, let alone a lord, so he'd take it. He knew that the northern men had no love for him, but he cared not for it, yet it seemed that while he was without their love, he could most certainly earn their respect. With that in mind, he thought back to the two boys who had seen him off, and how so many thought so little of them.

Unloved, unsuspected and looked down at by all but himself, Eddard and Robb. If he could earn the respect of the northern men, then those boys could too, in time. With that, he promised himself that he would shape them into men that the north would look up to, that the north would respect and support when the time came to claim their birthright.

_If only they knew_.

* * *

Jon loved the snow, he loved the cold and, most importantly, he loved playing in the fresh snow with his brothers. It was with a big grin on his face he, Torrhen and Robb bounded up the steps to the left guard tower of the south gate of Winterfell. It was mid morning and the 'Terrible three', as the guards had taken to calling them, had just finished breaking their fast in the Great Keep before bursting out into the piles of freshly fallen snow with reckless abandon.

At first, Robb had the idea of pelting the twins with fist fulls of compacted snow. He had taken Torrhen by surprise, scoring a hit to the forehead and knocking him onto his rump. Both Robb and Jon had laughed at the stunned look on his face, wide eyes blinking in shock before he wiped the snow from his face and then grinned. Torrhen had bent down and scooped up his own fist of snow and tossed it at the heir of Winterfell.

And so, the courtyard had devolved into a battlefield of snow being thrown in a free for all, the three brothers laughing all the while. Still, after half and hour of trying to burying one another in thrown snow, they had grown bored and, to the credit of Robb's idea, they had made for the castle walls. Jon had always liked playing on the castle walls. While the outer walls were often buffered by biting winds and flurries of snow, something that the Terrible three didn't mind, they sheltered the moat and the lower half of the taller second wall, leaving the water unfrozen to swim in and the inner wall a welcome change from the the howling winds.

Now, the Terrible three were standing as tall as they could atop the eastern wall, looking out over Winter town. It had been two weeks since their father had left with a large host of northern men-at-arms, yet they made sure to be there each and every day, eagerly waiting for the return of what would hopefully be successful campaign.

They didn't completely understand just what the cause had been, just that they had been told that a house called Greyjoy was causing trouble in the sea to the west. It was difficult for the three brothers to imagine the sea. They had grown up in Winterfell, a castle locked in land for hundreds of miles all around and the largest body of water they had seen was the black pool of water in front of the heart tree the Godswood. To picture an endless expanse of water was difficult for all three of them.

"What are you doing up here?"

The brothers whirled about at the soft, curious voice, frightened by the unexpected interruption, to find Alys Karstark. The girl was like Torrhen, tall and skinny and knobbly knees and elbows she had yet to grow into, and she wore her mousy brown hair in a braid that rested on her left shoulder. Unsure how to speak to a girl, Jon looked to Robb to answer while Torrhen just stared at the her, his quick purple eyes dancing over her face before he turned back around to look out over the snow covered plains south of the wall.

"We're checking if father and the others are back yet." Robb stated, seemingly unperturbed at talking to a girl, something Jon envied.

Alys frowned. "But they've only been gone for two weeks. My father said they'd be gone for at least a month." She announced. Jon and Robb looked at one another, not knowing what to say, before both turned to Torrhen. The youngest twin looked away from the horizon and, finding everyone staring at him, shrugged before going back to watching the plains. Robb sighed.

"Well what are we going to do for a month?" He asked his brothers.

"_More_ than a month." Alys corrected, and Robb's shoulders slumped.

"I dunno..." Jon muttered, kicking a small pile of snow and scuffing his boot against the stone of the wall. "Tor?" He asked, looking past Robb. Once more, all three pars of eyes were on the younger twin, who suddenly froze as though he had been caught sneaking into the kitchens in the middle of the night. Slowly, he looked to Jon, then Robb and finally Alys as they looked to the edge of the wall behind him to find a small pile of snow heaped together, precariously close to falling off.

"What were you doing?" Jon asked. Torrhen, having been caught, simply grinned and leaned over the edge of the wall and pointed downwards. Frowning, the other three children joined him in leaning over the edge to peer down at the large guard standing vigil. Fat Tom leaned against his spear with his shield arm hanging loosely at his side, directly under the pile of snow Torrhen had made. "Tor..." Jon groaned as he stood straight, a wide smile on his face as he grabbed even more snow and added to the pile.

"That is not near enough snow." Robb finished, joining Torrhen and Jon in shoveling more snow onto the pile and soon, the pile had tripled in size by the combined efforts of the brothers.

"You can't!" Alys interrupted, jumping in between them and the snow heap with a frown. "You'll all get in trouble if you do that!" She warned.

"Only if we get caught." Torrhen spoke and, briefly, all three kids had turned to look surprised at him, bringing a red flush to his face as he looked away.

"But he has a point." Jon encouraged.

"Yeah." Robb grinned. "Com'on Alys. I know you're bored too!" He urged. "And we still have ages until our fathers get home!"

Alys looked conflicted. They were right, she was bored. That boredom had set in not long after she had broken her fast. She had been by lady Catelyn's side afterwards, the pregnant lady going from fussing about the castle to tending to the care of her toddler, Sansa. Alys had overheard one of the castle staff mutter something about 'Nesting' ladies after moving a heavy wooden chest to where lady Catelyn had directed for the fourth time. It was then that she had caught sight of the three brothers outside, running through the snow an laughing.

She had thought that they looked like they were having fun, fun she had desperately wanted to have too, rather than following an old lady around all day. At least Dacey and Alysane got to train in the yard! But now she was torn. She was bored, yes, but she didn't want to get in trouble while staying in a keep not hers. Yet before she could decide, a smooth voice cut through the air and all four children jumped.

"And what might you little rascals be up to?" Stepping out from the shadows of the doorway in the right tower of the gate, a slender man with brown hair brushing his shoulders stepped out onto the castle walls. He wore black leathers, cloth and chain mail under a heavy black cloak of the Night's Watch, his steps slow and cautious on the ice.

He had a sharp face with laughter lines around the corners of his mouth, but his shrewd eyes looked from each of the four kids, then to the pile of snow. A growing smile on his lips, he leaned over the wall and spied Fat Tom standing underneath the snow. "Ah, cheeky little trouble makers, are you?" He chuckled. "Worry not, I won't tell a soul." With that said, he slipped back into the dark doorway, silent and dark as a shadow.

"W-Who was that?" Alys stuttered, eyes wide as she looked to the three brothers.

"He's a ranger from the Night's Watch." Jon explained. "The Lord Commander and a couple rangers arrived a few days after father left. They wanted to talk to father before her left, but..." Jon trailed off.

"Looks like they're staying around to catch him when he gets back." Robb muttered, still watching the shadows the ranger had emerged from.

"He was creepy..." Alys said, Jon and Robb agreeing with her.

The crunch of ice underfoot had them all turn about to see Torrhen adding more snow to the pile, the boy having to stretch his hands up as high as he could while standing on the tips of his toes, yet still he only just managed to add the cupped handfuls of snow to the top of the pile. Both Jon and Robb grinned, rushing about to pile more snow on top, while Alys sighed in defeat.

"Wait, stop." She said, and all three boys halted to stare at her, snow in hand. "If you keep putting more on, it's going to fall on you. Push it now." She instructed as she moved to the base of the pile and tried shoving from the bottom, but it was too heavy for her to make much of a difference. Jon and Robb looked to one another, unsure about what she said, but Torrhen merely tossing the snow in his hands behind him and into the moat as he joined her in trying push it. Shrugging, Jon and Robb joined in and within seconds, the pile of snow as big and heavy as any of them went sliding over the edge and crashed down onto an unsuspecting Fat Tom.

An indignant shriek ripped from the guards throat as the cold, heavy weight sent him sprawling on his face. Jon and Robb erupted into laughter while Alys held her stomach in a giggling fit. Torrhen grinned, a small chuckle escaping him, but all joy they found soon vanished as, with a mighty roar, Fat Tom pushed himself to his feet. Red faced with embarrassed and enraged, Fat Tom brushed as much of the snow off of himself as possible before he looked up and bellowed at the children. "You little weasels!" He shook his spear up at them. "I'll get you for this!"

Dashing through the gate as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast, Fat Tom bellowed his promises of retribution, his voice echoing through the stairwells of both of the gates towers, making it all but impossible to discern which he was climbing. Robb, still grinning, took off to the left tower, Jon quick on his heels. "Come on, Tor!" He called out behind him, giggling as they made their escape.

Torrhen reached out and grabbed Alys's wrist. "Meet at the Green Tower!" He shouted down the stairs that Jon had vanished down before bolting the other way. "Come on!" He grinned as he dragged her behind him.

"Wait!" Alys cried as he pulled her into the right hand tower and down the stairs. "Why aren't we following Robb and Jon?!" Yet as soon as the words had left her mouth, she heard the startled cries of both the heir of Winterfell and the elder bastard from the other tower. It seemed they had found Fat Tom. Hearing Robb and Jon trying to run from the rotund guard as her and Torrhen fled down their stairs to safety, Alys giggled and dashed alongside the twin. The two of them flying down the last of the stairs, they dashed out across the drawbridge, through the gateway of the second wall and into the open courtyard behind it, laughing all the way.

As they ran across the snow covered courtyard, Torrhen caught sight of the ranger from the Night's Watch standing outside the guards hall to the left of the gate, another black brother beside him, laughing heartily at the children. His grin growing ever wider, Torrhen turned sharply to the left, dragging a surprised Alys with him, and the sprinted passed the guards hall and towards a short, round and squat drum like tower.

It was old and worn down, with moss and creeping vines crawling up its stone walls, but Torrhen ran towards it like a boy possessed. He ran around the left of the tower, close to the inner wall, and came to a skidding halt in time for them to see Robb and Jon running through the gate, laughing, while Fat Tom panted and puffed behind them, clumps of snow falling off of him with each heavy step. Torrhen chuckled.

He then stepped closer to the old tower, where a branch from a large vine covered the wall with so many leaves and twigs that Alys couldn't see the stone behind it. That was, until Torrhen stepped to the side and grabbed the branch and pulled it aside to reveal a thin, tall hole in the side of the tower. He waved her in with a smile and Alys, pushing past her trepidation of crawling into such a dark and damp looking place, crawled through the crack.

It was difficult, had she been any wider then she wouldn't have fit and there was a mere foot of head room, but she managed, and soon found herself inside small room lined with barrels bigger than her. Slowly walking further inside, the only light coming from the crack in the wall she had just crawled through, the room was dimly lit, too dim for her to make out any details.

"It's an old wine cellar." Alys spun about to see Torrhen worming his way inside, the foliage falling back into place to immerse them in total darkness. "Jon found the way in last year, but we haven't explored much beyond this floor and the one above." He said, his voice quite, yet echoing off the stone. Alys let out a gasp as something grabbed her hand, her heart jumping into her throat, only to realize it was Torrhen's hand. Taking deep breaths, she allowed the twin to guide her through the shadows and within moment, she heard the sound of old rusted hinges being forced into use again.

Light flooded into the room and Alys gasped. The inside of the tower had been cold completely overrun by crawling plants, but inside, the halls that were once a cold grey of stone were now alive and vibrant with lush green leaves and vines and a wave of heat struck her. The roof was much the same, and an endless rug of more greenery had covered every inch of the floor. Alys did little more than gaze around in wonder and revel in the warmth of the inside of the tower.

Torrhen closed the door to the cellar and slowly worked his way through the tower floor, taking Alys around the outer hallways past decrepit doors, decaying walls and even a stair case that swooped into shadows beneath the tower, but the greenery grew more and more vibrant as they went until he opened a door and walked her through. They were in a room on the northern side of the tower, all that separated them from the outside being a single hallway, yet the inner wall had been broken through, the sunlight from the adjoined rooms windows flowing in through the broken wall to provide a half lit effect, and Alys felt as though her breath had been taken away.

The room had a large, circular pit in the floor filled with water, like a spring. Thick roots and branches from the other room slowly made their way across the floor and into the perfectly clear water. The vines from the roof had grown heavy and begun to peel off the stone, making more room for younger, fresher vines while the older greenery dangled from the roof like natures most beautiful chandelier.

But what took her by surprise the most was the humidity. There was thick steam in the air, almost like she was among clouds, and soon her heavy winter gear was too heavy for her, the moisture making it feel as though she had just walked out of a lake and her small clothes clung to her skin as she began to sweat. Torrhen let go of her hand smiled at her. "Careful." He warned. "The gorund is slippery." Alys stepped inside as he closed the door.

"Everyone else calls this the First Keep, but Jon and I call it the Green Tower." He explained, smiling as he looked about the room fondly. Picking his way through the foliage, Torrhen shed his outer cloths, his coat and boots being left by the door as he walked through the large hole in the wall and into the next room. Alys followed him with her eyes and spied with looked like a forest in the room, each plant reaching for the rays of sunlight streaming through the windows.

"It's beautiful..." She marveled as she, too, shed her heavy outer layer clothes and together, clad in only a single layer of clothes over their small clothes, explored the inside of the indoor forest. "How is it so warm?" She wondered aloud.

"Maester Luwin says that Winterfell was built on top of hot springs." Torrhen began. "He says that the hot water is piped through the walls of the entire castle to keep it warm, even in the coldest winters." He stepped over a large roots that sprouted mushrooms and pointed to the break in the wall. "Just up there, one of the pipes in the wall has rusted through and leaks hot water all the time." He smiled and, as Alys peered through the dense steam, she was only just able to make out a copper pipe along the top of the hole, a series of small rusted spots leaking hot water that dripped down onto the stones below, only to flow into the clear pool in the first room. "This is mine and Jon's favourite place in the whole castle, because no one can find us here. Not even Robb." He boasted with a proud grin.

The door to the first room suddenly burst open, causing Alys to jump at the sudden noise, and in dashed a panting Jon, already stripping his heavy cold clothes, and pushed the door closed again. He dumped his coat and boots next to Torrhen's and made to take off the next layer as he turned about, only to stop as he saw Alys. "Oh." He said dumbly, looking to Torrhen and back to Alys, then finally settling on Torrhen. "You brought her here?" Torrhen simply shrugged. "Cool." Jon smiled as he relaxed and settled down atop a thick branch next to the pool of water.

Looking to Torrhen, Alys suddenly felt awkward. This was the twins special place, a place for them to go whenever they wanted to get away from everyone else, and she was intruding. Should she leave? She didn't know what to do. On one hand, she was intruding on their spot, on the other, she was dragged here by one and the other didn't really seem to care all that much.

Looking from one twin to the other, Alys watched wearily as Torrhen nestled himself down in a small alcove of shrubbery next to the pool, leaning against what looked like a small tree with its roots splayed across the warm stone floor. Jon was seated on a root of the same tree, thick as a small log, with his bare feet in the pool and the legs of his pants rolled up to his knees.

There was no conversation, no awkwardness and nothing to make her feel unwelcome. The brothers were simply relaxing in their small, hidden corner of the world with nothing to bother them. How many times had she wished for such a hidden space of her own without her father telling her how she was going to be a proper lady, raised to marry a noble heir to a large keep, or her brothers teasing her, or the maester trying to teach her letters and numbers?

So to see such a hid away nestled in the largest castle in the North, Alys felt a pang of jealousy. Why couldn't Karhold have such a hidden wonder like this? It wasn't fair. Nonetheless, here she was, her two new friends not caring that she was intruding on their sanctuary. Smiling, Alys decided then and there; she quite liked the company of the twins, and she quite liked staying in Winterfell.

* * *

As the last light skimmed the waves, breaking and frothing against the hard wood hulls of hundreds of ships. A mighty fleet with a hundred coat of arms painted across thousands of sails bore down on its limping prey, the Iron Islands left crippled and nowhere to turn to in their darkest hour. They stood there, on the islands of the west, with a thirst for blood and battle and vengeance, a thirst that ached through their hearts and bones.

Lightning, brilliant and bright, pieced the clouds and the world was bathed in blinding bright light for a breif moment where all was seen. The castle stood tall, proud and daunting with its great stone walls and wickedly shaped towers atop the small islet, yet now it bore a gaping hole near its roots. Men, frozen in that moment of light, looked on eagerly with battle cries, snarls and swords wet with blood and armor slick and glistening in the rain and sea spray.

The golden firelight spilled out of the castle's bowels and splashed across the wave beaten stones of the jagged beach, driving broken and bloated bodies into the shredding rocks. White breakers crashed into sinking wrecks, ruins and anchored ships alike. Great War Galleys holding siege weapons on deck held just out of rang of the island defenses, and scores of archers lined the rails of hundreds of Carracks that remained afloat as close to the churning red shores as they could.

Hundreds of men crowded the inside of the stone goliath of Pyke, clad in black iron armor and their short swords and round shields, Iron born raiders facing the thousands of invading green land soldiers. Then darkness swallowed the world once more, and the roar of the rain, wind and sea was drowned by the sound of the sky shattering a thunder tore the air apart, as though the gods themselves had loosed their war cry upon Pyke's breached walls.

The legion of steel and flesh charged forwards, a writhing mass of slicing and cutting blades and crushing and bashing shields. Green and bright, the flickering tongue's of wildfire danced along the steel edge of the first man through the breach, the emerald blaze sending black armored raiders stumbling backwards and the red priest swung the fiery blade to and fro. Soon, the hole in Pyke's gut was clogged with the kings men as they shoved and pushed one another, each more eager for glory and victory.

Yet between the bear lord and the red priest, swinging a sword as pale as milk, The Sword of the Morning carved through flesh, bone and iron alike with his sword dancing, the star forged blade spraying blood through the air like crimson calligraphy as his cloak, bearing the symbol of Stark befitting his sworn words, dancing in the wind like a ribbon. Raiders fell in their droves as the three carved a bloody swath through the faltering Iron born, and it didn't take long for the host of defenders to break.

With the Iron born scattering before them, the kings men surged forward, sweeping through the castle like an unstoppable tide, leaving nothing but bloody smears and broken bodies in its wake. Ser Arthur, leading the charge, was grim faced as he kicked down a door, Dawn held before him as he and Jorah swept into the hall, a swarm of men-at-arms flooding in behind them and rushing past. Pausing, Arthur stepped to the side to catch his breath. Jorah, seeing this, stepped aside with him, sword raised and on guard in a gesture much appreciated much by The Sword of the Morning.

"Thanks." Arthur grunted out as he reached for the small water skin tied to his hip and drained the bag in five gulps, letting the last rest on his tongue to savor it for a moment. Jorah nodded, his eyes not shifting from the hall as the clash of steel sounded from the far doorway. Having had his breif respite, Arthur lifted Dawn in guard and Jorah took his own water skin in turn.

Several more men bearing the banners of the many lords of the seven kingdoms rushed through the room, all running forward like green boys to the small battle taking place at the opposite side of the room, each gnawing for blood and glory. It turned out to be a drive that led them all to death as a massive red sword gutted four men at once, men of black armor spilling into the room with axes and swords hacking and slashing away.

It didn't take long, but Arthur gritted his teeth as he and Jorah steadily walked forwards, swords at the ready as the last of the foot soldiers trimmed one another's numbers and soon, seven Iron born raiders were left standing in the pooling red as the eighth, a scrawny man with a weather worn face and wore old, scrap like armor, lowered himself to rest atop the mound of the dead. In his hand he held the hilt of what could only be described as a massive, sword shaped slab of blood red steel.

"Kill those two as well." The old man ordered with a voice that sounded like he had choked on salt water for most of his life. "And bring me that ones pretty white sword." He grinned. "It'd go well with me own Red Rain." The sword in his hands, Red Rain, glinted maliciously as another crack of lightning exploded in the sky outside.

Arthur narrowed his eyes as he flexed his grip on Dawn, Jorah looking to him briefly before looking to the raiders. With an unspoken command, the two lunged forward, Jorah swinging his sword down in a powerful downward slash while Dawn's speed remained unchanged as it carved a trench in the stone floor before coming up to meet the old, chipped blade of the raider coming towards him with an ear splitting crash, the Iron born's sword shattering and Dawn continued on to cut the man from cock to chin.

It didn't take long, but Jorah and Arthur met ion with steel, undisciplined hacks with trained slashes and sluggish and slow footwork with the grace rarely found outside of dancers, Arthur's cloak billowing almost supernaturally with his delicate and surgical work. As the last raider dropped to the ground in two pieces in front of Jorah, the old man with the greatsword growled and groaned as he used it like a walking stick, leaning against the massive sword as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Fine." He grumbled, gripping the hilt in two hands. "I'll do it me bloody self." Straightening himself, the old Iron born bared his rotted black teeth at the knight and lord. "I am Lord Dale Drumm the second, head of House Drumm of Old Wyk." He announced, jerking a thumb to point to the skeletal hand painted onto his chipped and scratched armor, the coat of arms of his house. "Imma kill ya."

With those simple words, Dale launched himself forward, swinging the greatsword like a club, and Arthur felt like groaning. Dale's footwork was pathetic, he had no technique and he kept screaming all the bloody while. If this was a lord of the Iron islands, then it was no wonder they were killed so easily. This man had no idea what he was doing. If anything, Arthur was rather insulted by what he saw.

Scowling, The Sword of the Morning pushed off with his back foot, gliding over the blood slicked stone an ducking under one of the cumbersome swings on the greatsword, and in an instant, he was in Dale's guard and swinging Dawn upwards, carving through the armor, flesh and bone of the lords wrists in a single sooth motion.

Screaming as Red Rain clattered to the ground, his hands still clutching the hilt uselessly, Dale howled in pain and dropped to his knees. Arthur, however, had heard enough of the mans screeching, and with a flick of his wrist, lord Dale Drumm the second's voice was silenced and his head rolled from his shoulders and fell to the floor, sounding not unlike a melon.

Leaning down, Arthur wiped Dawn on an exposed piece of cloth on Dale's leg, freeing the blade of the blood before looking to Jorah. The northern lord looked none so surprised, but rather appreciative. He gave Arthur a respectful nod before inclining his head to the door on the other side of the hall, where the sounds of a battlefield orchestra carried throughout the walls of the ancient castle.

"A moment." Arthur requested as he slowly approached the still shape of Red Rain. He eyed the blade curiously, the dark swirls and ripples along the swords length, and hummed in surprise. "Valyrian steel." He noted as he squatted beside it for closer inspection, peeling Dale's dismembered fingers from the hilt.

"Truly?" Jorah asked, looking somewhat amazed. "In the hands of an Iron born lord? I wonder where he stole it from..." He thought aloud.

"With a name like Red Rain?" Arthur frowned. "I'd say it was stolen from House Reyne sometime before The Rains Of Castamere." He mused. Reaching down, he grasped the soft black leather of the greatsword and lifted, though he found it difficult. A greatsword Dawn may have been, but the star forged blade was much lighter than Valyrian steel. Sheathing his ancestral blade, Arthur gripped Dawn with both hands and grunted as he lifted the crimson blade.

"It would be a pity to leave such a blade in hands of Iron born raiders." Jorah intoned, his meaning clear.

"Indeed it would." Arthur nodded, and with both hands on the hilt of the greatsword, he turned about and stalked from the hall, Jorah close on his heel with his own sword raised. As they made their way through the hallways and checked rooms, however, it became evident that the fighting had ended. No steel sounded, no battle cries echoed, and the kings men wandered the castle freely, some already drinking or trying to coax frightened handmaidens of the castle into a night of pleasures.

All the while, Arthur and lord Jorah marched on by, the masses of Westeros men growing until, at last, they came across what had most likely been the throne room, the screams and cries of a woman echoing from inside.

"I'll speak to you later, Ser Arthur." Jorah spoke up, his eyes on the bear coat of arms on the armor of a man speaking rather heatedly with a man of house Lannister, a strong shove escalating things to a thrown punch. "It seems I have a quarrel to break up." With that, Jorah marched of with a look of something fierce on his face. Arthur pitied the men who had stepped on his last nerve.

Sighing, Arthur looked back into the great hall before him, the doorway over him making him feel rather small. At the far end of the hall, Arthur saw Thoros of Myr sitting atop a table, the red priest famous for his sword alight with wildfire was drinking from a wine skin while a man stood at his side, clutching the bloody stump of his wrist in a rag and gritting his teeth, the two of them watching the scene unfold out in front of them.

A woman with long white hair was held back by a large, armored man as she kicked and screeched, clawing at the mans armored wrists until her nails fell off and her fingers bled. Beside them stood two other men, each one holding a child and knife point, though they seemed uncomfortable about it. Arthur couldn't see them all too well from the other side of such a large hall, but the older child, the one he thought might b a girl, was quite and held their head up defiantly, while the younger child cried miserably in the horrible wail that children made.

But it was the two men standing over a cowering third that caught his attention. The man on the ground, with his gaunt face and long grey hair, was undoubtedly Balon Greyjoy, self proclaimed King of the Salt Throne. His driftwood crown laying uselessly on the floor in front of him. It was curious thing, Arthur noted; Old rotted wood stained white from the sun and littered in hideous patches of green smears from seaweed. Balon was on the ground in front of Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North standing stoically with Ice in his hands. The last man, however, gave Arthur pause, his back straightening and his lips curdling into a snarl; The Usurper, Robert Baratheon.

"You my take my head." Balon ground out defiantly. "But you cannot name me traitor. No Greyjoy ever swore fealty to a _Baratheon_." The rebel spat at Robert feet, and Arthur found himself wishing that Balon had a dagger in hand. If he did, he could either slay Robert or die trying, and both would be worthy of thanks in Arthur's eyes.

"Swear it now." Robert commanded. "Or you'll loose that stubborn head of yours." He glowered, his glare simply daring Balon to defy him one more time.

A long, wheezing breath escaped Balon at this, and the woman screeched something unintelligible that made Arthur's ears ache. "I, Balon Greyjoy." He began, sounding as though he hadn't slept in days and looking a decade older as he lifted his head to look Robert in the eye. "Do hereby swear fealty to King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." He sighed. Arthur scowled something viscous at the words, and his anger must have been felt across the hall, because Ned looked up from the crushed king and locked gaze with the knight.

Eddard whispered something in Robert's ear, the Usurper nodding before the Warden of the North marched past him, sheathing Ice at his hip as he came to a stop in front of Arthur. "Ser Arthur, it's good to see you well." He said politely, but at the sight of Red Rain, his eyes seemed fixated on the over sized sword. "Might I ask where you acquired that sword?" He asked curiously.

"This is Red Rain, a sword of valyrian steel." Arthur gestured to the greatsword, and Eddard's eyebrows rose in question. "I took it from the cold hands of the lord of House Drumm." He explained.

"You took it?" Eddard asked, leaning closer. "You took the ancestral sword of a house?" Arthur wasn't sure what he heard on Eddard's voice, be it disbelief or anger, but he didn't much care. The northern lord had a stubborn streak a league wide that the knight felt needed trimming.

"Yes, I took it." Arthur said. "But this is not Drumm's ancestral sword. No Iron born house has an ancestral blade. They do steal them, however." Arthur leaned in closer to Ned, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I wonder how many people these scum slew with this blade, a blade likely stolen from a house on the mainland after the previous wielder was killed."

Eddard frowned at that, meeting the knights challenging stare with his own. The two had slugged through many quarrels over the years, yet they seemed to be growing fewer and further between. They were learning how to speak to one another, learning how to tolerate one another, and on several occasions, even laughing with one another. A respect born of battle had grown between them, and it only grew the more they understood each other.

Eventually, Ned nodded, conceding. "You speak truly, Ser Arthur." He sighed, rubbing his chin as they stepped away from each other. "If you need any assistance learning to use such a heavy weapon, I would be glad to held." Ned said with a respectful nod, tapping Ice as he did so, the blade of house Stark being nearly as large as Red Rain.

"I thank you for your offer, lord Stark." Arthur nodded. "But I have yet to decide what to do with the sword. It is something I will think on during the journey home..." He trailed off, his eyes falling to the thick slab of steel.

"Very well." Ned said with a soft smile. "Then, I suggest that we hea-"

"Ned! Get over here! And bring Mormont with ya!"

The booming voice of Robert Baratheon shook the halls, drowning out Eddard's words. Sighing, the lord of Winterfell blinked slowly and deliberately. "Apologies, Ser Arthur, it seems that I have been called elsewhere. Might you be as kind as to find lord Mormont for me?" He asked. The knight nodded once. "Thank you, Ser. Now if you'll excuse me, I have... summons to attend to." Arthur smiled at the frustration in his voice, watching as his lord turned about and marched back to Robert.

"Now to find a bear..." Arthur sighed, the sound of armor crashing into armor and loud curses rolled don the hallway outside, Jorah's bellowing voice silencing the conflict in an instant. "Yes. Where oh where could that bear be." He mused, turning about on his heels and he made his way out the hall, finding himself absently hoping for the lord Mormont that the Usurper had something rewarding in mind for him.

* * *

Catelyn scowled as she looked out the window, her hands absently stroking her swollen belly. She had decided that if this babe was to be a boy, as she hoped, then she would name him Artos, and if a girl then her name would be Arya. Yet, in spite of choosing names full of such history for her child, Catelyn knew there was something wrong. She should have been happy. She ought to have been the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms.

She had a beautiful boy, Robb. True he favored the Tully side of his family, through his lean build, auburn hair that was a darker, more rusted color than her own, and his blue eyes, but he was a healthy and strong boy full energy and wonder. Then there was her little girl, Sansa. She was just three years old, but she too had favored her mother family, though her hair was a brighter auburn than Catelyn's own, and her eyes were bright as the blue sky. This, another babe on the way, and all her children fathered by a husband she had grown to love, Eddard Stark. Yet she was still scowling out the window, unhappy.

It was their fault. She could see them from her chambers, running about in the yard and throwing fistfuls of fresh white snow at both each other and the other children who had joined them. Twin blights against her, Jon and Torrhen Snow. It was the one thing she couldn't understand about her husband. They were bastards, stains on his honor, yet he treated them like true born children, slighted her by keeping them so close to her own. Why couldn't he just send them away?

Worse yet, even if she did convince her husband to do so, she didn't think that her own son would forgive her. Robb, her sweet boy, treated them like they had come from the same womb. He was down their now, in the snow, laughing and smiling with them. He loved them like the brothers that they weren't. What could she do? Nothing but pray.

So pray she did. She prayed when they pulled their first disappearing trick last year. The two had been five and dissapeared for half a day. Eddard and that knight uncle of the boys, Ser Arthur Dayne, had the castle in a frenzy looking for them, and if one were to gauge from Arthur's shouting and panic one would have assumed that the missing boys were princes.

But that had only been the first time the boys have vanished, only to return all too cheerful for her tastes. It happened almost once a week. They would run off one day after breaking their fast in the morn or after finishing their mid day meal, not to be seen again until supper. A queer happenstance that had her praying for them to fall upon ill fates each time, but her prayers were never answered.

Sighing, she watched as the children stopped playing in the snow, gathered around a tree in the corner of the courtyard. It seemed as though they had found something of interest. Catelyn sighed as she watched. She had hoped that Robb would spend more time with the visiting children of the northern houses while they were here, yet he only did so if they took to the twins as well. As it was, however, the only one who didn't was the Umber boy, Jon, or Smalljon as everyone called him.

Under the tree, Catelyn raised as eyebrow as Robb lifted something up in his cupped hands, showing the twins, Alys Karstark and Alysane Mormont excitedly. It was amusing to watch, Robb looked so concerned over what they had found, yet so excited as well. Catelyn found herself idly wondering what her son had found. Nevertheless, she turned away and looked over to her bed, where Sansa was curled up on top of the blankets, her bright red hair sprawled out over the pillow like a fan.

Catelyn smiled at the sight, lowering herself to sit next to her daughter and gently brushing a lock of hair out of her face. Catelyn cooed at the sight. Sansa so reminded her of herself when she was young. A cute rounded face and button nose, and when she was awake her eyes were often wide and bright with wonder. Catelyn oft times found herself singing to Sansa, and the little girl would smile and watch her mother in awe. She liked the southern songs, the songs of dashing princes and knights rescuing fair maidens and princesses in castles and vanquishing monstrous beasts and men.

But her peaceful calm was shattered as the door to her bedchamber swung open and the sound of a small stampede rushed into her room. Catelyn looked up, annoyed by the impolite interruption that had threatened her daughters rest, but her ire melted like snow on Winterfell's hot springs when she saw her sweet boy, Robb, followed by Alys Karstark, Alysane Mormont and the twins, though she buried her disdain for them as she looked to her boy.

Red cheeked and runny nosed from the cold with small flecks of snow still caught in his curled rusty hair, she smiled at him with the warmth only a mother could. "My sweet boy, I thought you knew better than to rush into rooms without knocking?" She teased as she pinched his cheek. Robb flushed at the chiding and squirmed under her teasing.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled under his breath. "But mother, look!" He said, thrusting his cupped hands up to her. Frowning as she peered into his tender hands, Catelyn was surprised to find a young falcon, not even old enough to leave the nest from the looks of it, breathing heavily in his palms. "Tor found it under a tree! It looks like it the falcon from you sisters house, dosen't it?" He asked.

Peering down at the young bird, Catelyn took in the colors of its fresh plume, only a scant few feathers of sky blue poking through its grey downing. It looked up at her with large, wide black eyes that quivered. It's beak, small and curled, chattered as it opened to chirp in panic. "Is it alright mother? It's not hurt, is it?" He asked pleadingly, and Catelyn felt like her heart would melt from the sweetness.

"No, sweetling, not hurt. Only tired, and mayhaps a bit scared too." She smiled, brushing a lock of Robb's hair behind his ear. "I don't think it's seen many people before. But it seems to have fallen from its nest." She said.

"Should we put it back in its nest then mother?" Robb smiled brightly, that childish innocence not knowing what that meant for the young bird. In the wild, it would mean death to fall from the nest, but here in Winterfell, after humans had touched it, Catelyn wouldn't be surprised if its mother abandoned it, such was the cruelty of the world. A cruelty that she couldn't bear to brave her son to just yet. He was only six name days old, and she wanted him to have a long and happy childhood.

"Mayhaps, but not yet." Catelyn said. "We should have him gather his strength first, get him something to eat and let him rest, yes?" Robb was positively beaming at that, begining to bounce back towards the door.

"I'll run down to the kitchens and ask if they have anything that a baby falcon would eat, and I'll make a nest out of warmed blankets for it in my room!" He announced. Catelyn smiled as she pictured the look on Gage's face when Robb bounded into the room. Jon, Alys and Alysane rushed after Robb, but he paused in the doorway. "Coming Tor?" He asked over his shoulder, looking past Catelyn. Following his eyes, the lady of the castle bristled at what she saw. She hadn't even seen him move from behind Robb.

Torrhen, the younger twin, was shifting the bedding around Sansa, lifting the thick blankets up and over her, tucking her in up to her neck and brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face and gently pushing a pillow underneath her cheek. The fire had been freshly stoked as well, as Sansa rolled over to face the new wave of warmth. Catelyn fumed at the sight as the bastard even had the gall to smile down at her. But it was then he looked up at Robb's beckoning, and his smile vanished as he saw her.

She held a cold fury in her eyes as she glared at the boy. Under her seething stare, Torrhen shrunk down in on himself and stepped away from Sansa, a look of fearful guilt on his face. "I-I'm sorry, lady Stark." He quietly apologized, he bowed his head, his hands wringing together in front of him.

"What, might I ask, made you think to care for her when I am right here?" She snapped harshly, a worm of satisfaction crawling up her at seeing him cowed before her. Catelyn didn't need to look to know that the children behind her were shifting uncomfortably, most likely looking to one another, unsure what to do.

"It's alright mother." Robb smiled that childish, innocent smile as he hoped past her, the falcon chick in one hand while his other arm now rested on Torrhen's shoulders. "It's the big brothers job to look after his little sister, isn't it?" He said, his smile faltering as he looked up at her, his eyes looking round and pleading and, for a breif moment, Catelyn felt her fury at the bastard boy waver.

"I-" She stopped and took in a deep breath, thoughts whirling about in her head as she quickly pieced together her words. "That is true." She said, her motherly smile returning as she looked to Robb, ignoring the bastard at his side for the moment. "You are right, sweetling. But Torrhen has even more of a responsibility to do so." She began, her carefully crafted words rolling off her tongue.

"He's a base born child, therefore he must guard you and Sansa and any other siblings you have with his life. It is his duty to bring honor to this family by being the greatest defense for you and your younger siblings, Robb. Do you understand?" She asked, and behind her she heard one of the girls whisper something angrily, but she did not turn to look, nor did she deem it worth her attention. She needed Robb to understand that he stood above the twins, and the twins needed to understand that they were not his equals.

"Y-Yes, mother." Robb muttered, looking down at the floorboards. Catelyn felt a pang in her heart. Perhaps this was too much for her boy. Should she have simply agreed with him and let it be? No, that would give the bastard twins the gall to put themselves as his equal, and it would take time and effort to hammer that attitude down once it rose too far.

"And you, Torrhen?" She asked icily, raising an eyebrow as she stared down at the boy with a mask without emotion. Torrhen nodded quickly.

"Y-Yes, lady Stark." He whispered in that quite voice of his. Smiling a small, cold smile, Catelyn then turned and regarded the other twin over her shoulder, but her eyebrow rose at what she saw. The Karstark girl stood beside Jon, her hand squeezing his while the older Mormont girl stood in front of him, blocking Catelyn from staring him down. Catelyn felt a sudden well of anger in her at the display, but she forced it down. They would see in time. Jon was a mere bastard, unworthy or their friendship. Nevertheless, she stared down Jon relentlessly.

"I-I understand, lady Stark." He stammered, looking to the floorboards between his feet as he did so. Thinking the bastards sufficiently cowed, she nodded and smiled to Robb. Her boy was the heir to Winterfell, and she wouldn't let some lowly bastard children stand in his way of being the Warden of the North.

* * *

Eddard Stark drummed his finger along the leather bindings of Ice as he stood, the tip of the ancient greatsword resting on the ground between his toes as he held the hilt close to his collar bone. The thick coat of fur he wore over his armor gave him a hunched look, and his stern, brooding face was showing the beginnings of his frowning lines around his eyes, in spite of him being only twenty and six.

Nevertheless he was stood in the drab grey of what had once been the throne room of the Iron Islands, watching as Balon Greyjoy hung his head in shame and defeat, strands of grey-white hair dangling near the stone floor. The sniffling of Theon, Balon's youngest child, echoed through the empty and otherwise empty chamber. Alannys Harlaw, Balon's wife and the mother of his children, had been dragged from the room not too long ago. Apparently Robert disliked her constant screeching.

Not that Ned could blame her for such; he could imagine Catelyn doing the same and so much worse should anyone put a blade to Robb of Sansa's throats. If anything, he found himself hard pressed not to rip Roberts men from the children. Robert had a bloody history with the innocent, Aegon and Rhaenys's bloody little bodies were still memories of rage for Eddard, and now that he was a father, he felt that rage only grow in time. It oft times left him wondering what kind of people the prince and princess would have grown up to be should they have survived.

Robert let out a long, tired sigh as he ran his hand along his face in an unkingly manner. He still rested a hand on the head of his war hammer, and Ned knew he would rather be swinging it through a slew of iron born hordes rather than dispense justice like this. He didn't know what would be too severe, what would be too lenient or even thought to be a punishment. Gods be good, he wished he had brought his advisers with him. Then they could make the bloody decision.

Slowly, Balon sat back on his haunches, his eyes empty and dull under the weight of his crushing defeat. Looking from him to the rest of the room, Robert eyed knighted Jacelyn Bywater and Jorah Mormont, two men he had summoned before turning to the business of Balon Greyjoy. Ser Jacelyn was bundled in northern coats and had lost a hand in the conflict, but Ser Jorah looked merely winded and relaxed, enjoying himself in what he would consider warmth when compared to the usual mid summer blizzards Bear Island suffered from.

Beside Robert was two of his Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy, stood vigilantly with their hands on the hilts of their swords, white cloaks and armor stained with flecks of blood. The last people in the room were the two men holding the last two Greyjoy children at the point of their blades. It was on these children that Robert's eyes narrowed, and upon seeing the face of the bawling Theon, an idea struck him to the sound of thunder booming outside.

"Ned." Robert grunted out. "We need to make sure that nothing like this happens again." He said in that gruff voice of his and, not being one for words, declared his intention. "You'll take the squids youngest child, his last son, as a ward." He commanded. A silence fell over the room, for once the little brat had stopped bawling, as most of those present stared at Robert while his words sunk in. When they finally did, Robert swore to the gods that he would have preferred to have died in battle earlier.

Eddard's jaw worked in shock, Theon's bawling grew tenfold louder and he began kicking and thrashing in the arms of the man holding him. The girl, Asha, was thrashing about and screaming too, but in rage rather than the boys ear grating crying. Robert would have chuckled at her in any other instance. Gods he hoped his children had a fire in them like that one.

But Balon was the worst. He eyes widened and life surged back through him. "No!" He shouted, jumping to his feet with speed defying his age and before Robert could blink the old squid was gripping Roberts cuirass with a white knuckle grip. "Not my boy!" He shouted, the Kingsguards drawing their swords with a flash of steel, but they were too slow.

With a sneer, Robert shook Balon's grip loose and swiftly brought his fist down upon the mans mouth, sending him sprawling to the floor as several of Balon's teeth clattered across the floor in a mix of blood and spit. "Fucking old shit." Robert spat.

"Please." Balon wheezed pathetically. "Please, not my boy. Take my head, take my daughter, just leave my boy!" He crawled along the floor towards Roberts boots, blood dripping from his mouth and down his chin and his strained voice croaked his plea.

"Bah!" Robert almost laughed as he looked to the man's thrashing children. "You hear that girl?" At this, Asha stopped he kicking and squiring. "You own father wants you gone." His chuckle was dark and cruel, and if he hadn't been laughing at the hurt and betrayal the girl wore, then he would have seen the dark shadow on Eddard's face. "Ned, you'll take the boy back to Winterfell." The king said with finality, looking to his Warden of the North with a warmth of their old friendship. "If there's anyone who could take the son of an enemy and turn him into an honorable man worthy of ruling, it'd be you."

Both Eddard and Arthur's eyes grew wide at that, and they exchanged a brief look of both surprise and paranoia. Did Robert somehow find out? No, he couldn't have, otherwise he'd have been cursing up a storm and drinking himself to death, learning that Lyanna and Rhaegar had children, and the king likely would have demanded the heads of the twins lining the walls of the Red Keep.

Looking back to Robert, Eddard found his words almost tuck in his throat, but he managed. "As you wish, Your Grace." He said with a bowed head. Robert's booming laughter echoed through the hall. Eddard looked to the guard holding Theon. The boy was older than either Robb or the twins. Perhaps that'd be a good thing; Theon could feel what it was like to be an older brother, looked up to by the younger siblings, and the Terrible three could have an older sibling, something he himself had enjoyed while Brandon had been alive.

"Good." Robert nodded, a great big smile on his broad face as he looked to the men at arms holding the children. "Take them away." He ordered, and with short nods, the men complied. "Kingslayer." Robert's voice grew in volume, and Ser Jaime Lannister bristled at the derogatory moniker, that cocky, easy smile he wore looking more strained. "Take Broken Balon here and find him a nice cold cell for the remainder of our stay."

The Kingsguard looked about to argue, but a sharp look from Ser Barristan stopped him. There would be no point in arguing Roberts orders, and this would just be another insult to the lion, another of the many he had already endured at the kings orders. The only thing Jaime could do was smile at the back of his throat, thoughts of telling Robert of the kings so-called child in the womb of his wife and whose child it really was whispered darkly at the edge of his mind. Yet, he simply let them fade away, just like all the other dark whispers, and carried out the insult ordered of him.

Eddard watched as the kingslayer dragged a begging and bleeding Balon from the hall, not an ounce of sympathy in his steely gaze, yet a cruel voice spoke of hypocrisy in Eddard's mind; Jaime Lannister may have broken his vows and slain his honor, but Eddard still lied to not only the king, but the entire kingdom at large. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Eddard looked back to Robert.

"Ser Arthur." The kings voice called out, now gravelly and grave, and The Sword of the Morning stepped forward, kneeling before the king as he did so, but there was no respect in the action, this Eddard knew; Arthur knelt to the title, but loathed the man. Ned's hold on Ice tightened as Robert looked upon Arthur, his nerves ablaze with worry.

He didn't know what Robert was planning, but he sorely wished that the king had spoken the Ned about it. Arthur had sworn his sword and services to him in Winterfell, just before the feast was thrown celebrating the rebels victory in the war, and Arthur had severed him faithfully. If worse came to be, then he would at least have that to use in Arthur's defense, on top of being the uncle of Eddard's bastards. Out of the corner of his eyes, Eddard noted Ser Barristan gripping his sword tighter, too, the armored leather gloves the man wore straining with his grip.

"Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord of Starfall. The Sword of the Morning and greatest swordsman in the realm." Robert began, a weariness to his voice. "I ask that we put old grievances aside, old allegiances to rest, and that you take up the mantle of Kingsguard once more."

Of all things that Ned thought Robert was going to say, it wasn't that.

Eddard felt his brain stop for a moment, as everyone looked to Robert with stunned, open mouthed looks of shock. Eddard nearly lost his grip on Ice. Yet before the words had even sunken in for anyone else, Arthur was standing a pale steel was flashing. In the rush of movement, Ser Barristan lunged forward, Jorah merely able to bring his sword to bear, too far to make any difference, and Eddard could only take a defensive stance, his mind still not caught up on what had been said.

The room stood still after the half second of steel ringing and armor jostling. Eddard had blinked and Ice was held before him, ready for any attack, yet what he saw was much worse. Ser Barristan was holding his sword along Arthur's cheek, steel biting into flesh as a single drop of blood lead the slow trickle down The Sword of the Morning's cheek and neck. Arthur held Dawn in both hands, his hard eyes burning with rage and his blade was unwavering ass the tip of the sword drew a lone drop of blood from Roberts neck.

Robert, to his credit, merely looked wide eyed down at the milk white sword. Either he knew he'd be safe or he hadn't been able to move at all, though Ned would have guessed the latter. Yet now there was a tension in the air so thick that Robb could probably cut it with his wooden training sword. Landing softly on the floor, Eddard's eyes widened as he saw most of Roberts beard fall away, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods. Had Arthur used Red Rain and not Dawn, the Roberts head would be rolling on the ground between Arthur's feet and Rhaegar would be avenged.

"You killed my best friend." Arthur hissed. "My brother in all but blood, and you ask me to simply put that aside to serve you?" His voice was almost a whisper, one of pain and seething wrath, and Eddard caught the glimmer of moisture gathering in Arthur's eyes. "I would do Rhaegar's memory honor to take your head here and now."

"Think, Arthur." Barristan warned quitely. "You wouldn't live to make the cut."

"I swore to lord Eddard Stark." Arthur growled, Dawn inching closer and forcing Robert to take a step back while Barristan's sword cut deeper into the lord of Starfall's cheek. "I swore to him because of the babes he sired with my sister. I swore to him because of the honor he showed in our battle. I swore to him because in him I could see a man I could serve with pride." Arthur's words were fast, heavy and full of fury, and Eddard felt a swell of gratitude for Arthur in that moment. "So I will not sully myself by betraying the memories of my friend. I will not sully my honor by swearing to his murderer, and I will not lower myself by becoming your guard, _Your Grace_." Arthur spat, venom dripping from his tongue.

Quickly as he had placed it there, Arthur had Dawn sheathed at his hip and had whirled about on his heels, marching from the room with footsteps that echoed with doom and hate. Each and every man was silent as they watched the most deadly swordsman in the kingdoms storm out of the room, coat following on the soft wind of his walk to proudly display the direwolf of house Stark. It wasn't until he had slammed the doors that the tension seemingly vanished from the room.

"Bring me his head!" Robert bellowed, his face swelling red in fury befitting a Baratheon. "Bring me that cunts head!" He spun about, his great war hammer in hand. "No!" He then paused, glaring mightily at the doors, as if willing them to burst aflame under his wrath alone. "I'll crush it myself!" He shouted, taking great big steps to the doors as he did.

Lowering Ice, Eddard walked swiftly and quickly before coming to a stop in front of Robert, hand raised to his chest as if to call for patience, but he may as well have been asking a storm to stop. "Robert wait!" He shouted, having to walk backwards as the king refused to stop. "Damn it Robert, stop!" He shouted, planting his feet and willing himself to be unmoved and, by some miracle, Robert stopped by a hair breadth from bowling Ned over.

"Move, Ned." Came the eerily quite, furious whisper of the king.

"No." Eddard said back, his voice just as quite, just dangerous. "You have a habit of acting without thinking, Robert." He began. "It's a dangerous habit that's going to get you killed if you're not careful. Right now, you need the stop. And. Think!" Ned glared up at his once brother in all but blood, and Robert glared right back. The Quite Wolf and The Demon of the Trident, and neither would back down.

"I'm the fucking king." Robert seethed. "He thinks he can hold a sword to _my throat_ and get away with it?!" He bellowed at Eddard's face, spittle flying from his lips. "And you think to let him?!"

"I think that kingship has made you forget something Robert." Eddard growled. "You are a king, yes, so you aren't allowed to be the stupid man that fucked everything that walked and drunk ever cask he laid eyes upon. You are the king, so you need to think before you thoughtless actions turn the entire kingdom against you." Licking his lips, Eddard shifted his feet. "You just told that man to forget that you killed his best friend and serve you. What would you do if someone killed me and asked you to serve him?"

Anger colored Roberts face. "You haven't kidnapped anyone betrothed, nor raped anyone's sister." He rumbled darkly.

Ned bit his tongue. He had thought long and hard about Lyanna's actions, and stewed over what Arthur had told him all those years ago, and he found that the Dayne knight had spoken true. Lyanna would never allow herself to be kidnapped. She would kick and scream and thrash and bite until those who came for her lay in bloody bruised and beaten heaps. If someone tried to rape her, she'd lash out with fury unrivaled and the man would be left a whimpering, dying fool. His sister was the She-Wolf, and she only did as she pleased, and refused to let anyone she didn't like touch her, lest they come under fire from her unholy wrath.

"Aye, but you'd want revenge anyhow, wouldn't you?" Eddard glowered. "Would you bend the knee, as Arthur just did to you? Would you leave the man who killed me alive and peaceful? Would you leave your home to serve the friend of the man who killed me? No, I don't think you would."

"No, I'd raise a fucking army." Robert agreed.

"Right." Eddard nodded. "Then isn't it enough that Arthur has done what he has done, without you insulting him like you just did?" Ned pressed, and he could see the fury in Roberts eyes ebb away. He bowed his head slightly, patting Roberts shoulder in the way they had when they were boys, and turned about. Robert would stew and fume over what had happened with Arthur, but he knew that in time, with a few feasts and nights of drunken whoring, he'd come around.

He always did.

* * *

Arthur stared out at the ships of the royal fleet rocked in the rough, churning seas, and Arthur spat at the beach in front of him as he breathed deeply. The foul smell of old seaweed and rotting bodies hit the back of his throat and he nearly gagged. No amount of fighting and killing could prepare you for the smell of a dying man shitting himself, or a rotting corpse. Lest of all one bloated, bird pecked and hideous like those floating in the water around Pyke now. Gods Arthur wished he had just stayed at home with the twins.

Sobbing and movement out to side of his vision caught his attention and The Sword of the Morning turned to see the commotion. Two northmen bearing the Stark coat of arms were marching a young, sobbing boy to one of the ships, and at the sight of his slumped shoulders and messy brown hair the knight recognized Theon Greyjoy. He watched as the boy was taken to the small row boat that would take him to a ship bound to take the northmen home.

Sighing, Arthur removed his helm and ran a hand through his hair. He had lost his youth. Thirty and seven nine days had passed for him, and he still bore the title of the greatest swordsman in Westeros. Perhaps, he thought, he could train his successor. His mind wandered back to Winterfell, back to the two young boys who had become the central figures in his life.

Over the past six years, while overseeing their twins growth, he had come to a realization; He may have been grooming the twins for the throne, but there was every possibility that they wouldn't want it. The northmen had looked down upon them from their first day, and lady Catelyn was anything but as lady to them, she seemed to share more of a likeness to a wicked step mother in the children's stories.

Snorting at the thought, Arthur smiled. Over the sounds of the ever crashing waves and the shout of men preparing to leave, the Dornish knight didn't hear his lord walking down the stony beach behind him. He didn't notice him until he had stopped beside him, but even when he did, neither of them said a word for some time. Both simply content with staring out over the black waves and dark shapes of the boats under the starless sky in silence.

"Has he called for my head?" Arthur finally asked.

"He did." Ned muttered. "But he calls for it no longer."

Arthur nodded, looking down at the stones between his feet. "Thank you, my lord." He said quietly. Another moment of silence passed between them, the only acknowledgment of Arthur's thanks was the firm grip of understanding on his shoulder.

"Shall we depart?" lord Stark asked in his grave northern brogue.

"Aye." Arthur sighed, but soon smiled. "The less time I spend here brooding, the less likely I'm to turn into you." Eddard softly chuckled at the friendly jape.

"Nay." He rumbled. "You'll never be as good as me."

Arthur let out a loud laugh, one that Ned echoed, and the two men began their march to the rowboats, astride and smiling. "I think I need a flagon of that northern ale." The Dornishman grinned, and Eddard nodded.

"I think I'll join you."

* * *

The sea's were rough, high waves rising up to crash upon the bow of the ship and launching sheets of sea foam and salted spray into the air to drench the soaked sailors and kings men. Vicious winds whipped and tore at the sails bearing the coat of arms of house Baratheon of Dragonstone, blowing through men's bodies as though they were ghosts to chill them to the bone and numb their bodies.

The waters of Blazewater bay were frigid and unforgiving, and even Eddard, a Stark through and through, had sought out solace from the biting droplets and howling winds. The thirty ships of Stannis Baratheon's fleet that he and the northern host had been loaned were to take them north from the Iron Islands, around Flint's Fingers and into the Blazewater before those carrying Eddard and the majority of the northmen would bank east into the Saltspear. The ships carrying those from house Mormont, Woodfoot, Glover and Fisher would be travelling to the Rills to deliver house Fisher, and then up past the Stony Shore to the home of the rest.

Eddard sighed. He was a week from making landfall, many of the ships would be making their way up the river to Winter lake that Torrhen's Square sat upon the shores of. It would be there that he and his men would depart for home. That they would depart for their families. Ned sighed as the ship rocked and he sunk further into his lumpy bed, thoughts of home bringing warmth to his heart.

Oh how he missed Cat. Her gentle touch and rich auburn hair, that sweet smile and loving eyes as blue as the open sky. He missed holding her, his arms around her waist and chin resting on the crown of her head, little Sansa holding both his trouser leg and Catelyn's skirt as they watched Robb and the twins play in the yard. Gods, he missed his boys too. Robb, his curled, unruly hair a shade darker than his mothers, his eyes just as bright as hers and smile even brighter, and while those may be his mothers, the boy was Stark in all else. He had a face like Ned's own and stature as well, and like his father his heart full of love for the twins.

Thinking of Jon and Tor brought a smile to his face. Jon was always following Robb about like a shadow. He was quieter than Robb, but he smiled just as much. He was more like a Stark than any of the children with his grey eyes and black-brown hair, long face and sullen looks. Yet it was easy to see that he'd be a handsome man when grown. Then there was Tor, the youngest of the boys. He was quieter still than Jon, hardly saying more than a few words a day outside his lessons with Maester Luwin. Yet he was taller, and took after his father. His true father.

That had been a sobering thought for Eddard when he first saw the likeness. Taller than either Jon or Robb by a full three inches and quick, frighteningly watchful eyes. He was all thin, his joints too big for his little body, yet when he grew into himself Eddard could see him being strong and well built, more so than Rhaegar was. Eddard shifted uncomfortable as his thoughts led him to dark places. In an effort to bid that horrid thoughts away, he thought to his younger children. Sansa, the always happy little girl, looked to be her mother more and more every day. He wondered if she had changed much since his departure five months ago.

More pressing though was that Catelyn would not be far from giving birth, if she hadn't already. Would he be coming home to another son, or another daughter? The anticipation was making him impatient to get home. Nevertheless, he also feared returning home, for he feared what Cat would say or do when he got there. He was sure that once he explained himself that she would apologize for any harsh words said and hold him close, but to arrive home from a second war with yet another boy... She was sure to be furious.

Nevertheless, he missed her. He missed the way she smelled of those southern flowers, even after all these years. He missed the way her soft voice could relax him in but a few notes of sweet song, and he missed the press of her warmth against his self. Warmth that threatened the twins. The truth of them was a secret he had locked away, deep behind his lips, yet he could feel his resolve to keep the truth from Catelyn slowly breaking away with each and every kiss, and it killed him.

A knock at the door drew his attention from his warring thoughts. "Enter." He called out, thankful for the respite from his own mind as Ser Arthur Dayne stepped in. Arthur had Dawn sheathed at his hip and Red Rain across his back, the larger Valyrian steel sword needing the extra room.

"My lord." He bowed his head.

"Arthur." Eddard smiled. "Come in, please." He said as he stood from his bed and beckoned his once enemy turned sworn sword into the room. "How is the journey treating you?" He asked as he offed the knight a chair, which was respectfully declined. "I trust that the waves aren't too much for you to handle?" Eddard asked. He felt surer of himself now than he ever had been around the knight, their last few nights of quite drinking and conversation had opened one another up to entire sides of themselves that the other hadn't known existed.

The two had bonded, in a way, that Eddard rarely did with anyone. They had both shared their grievances with Robert over a flagon of ale the night they left, neither of them deeming to say so much as a farewell to the king. The slight was small and petty, but they didn't care. There was stories to tell between the two as a brotherhood slowly built up, and while once Eddard would have felt ill of his companionship with Arthur when he usually did such with Robert, he could feel now that his friendship with the king was slowly deteriorating.

A wedge had been pushed between them, a wedge made of Robert's slights against Eddard's newest sworn sword and the bodies of innocent babes. It left the Warden of the North reeling, in light of their argument. For so long Robert had been his brother in all but blood, but the last few times they had met in the past six years they had been at one another's throats. First about Elia and her children at the hands of the Lannisters and now at the insult against Arthur and, unknowingly made by Robert, the insult to Lyanna.

Each and every day it seemed to make more sense that Lyanna ran away with her love, rather than Roberts lies to rally men to his cause. Soon enough it wouldn't surprise him if someone held proof in front of his face that Lyanna and Rhaegar were actually married and the twins were true-born sons of the crown prince. Wouldn't that be a scandal, Eddard thought.

Arthur smiled easily, the still raw scar on his cheek from Barristan's sword curving with his laughter lines. "The journey treats me better than most, my lord." He said. "But the cold..." The Dayne shivered. "Well, I'm a Dornishman through and through." Eddard laughed heartily at that. Oh how the boot was on the other foot since their first meet at the Tower of Joy.

"Should I assume that you did not come to me for the conversation?" Ned asked. While it was very well possible, he felt that they had expended their array of topics a few nights ago, in what had become a common occurrence of the two sharing a drink over their evening meal. Yet Arthur nodded solemnly. "What can I do for you, Ser?" Eddard asked, sitting back down on his bed, the ship rocking in the rough seas as he did so.

"Lord Eddard, I know that you and I don't see eye to eye much when it concerns the twins." Arthur began, glancing down at his boots as Ned shuffled uneasily. "You would have them live out their lives being you sons, and I... I would help them to their birth right, should they wish it." Eddard's eyebrows rose. That was new. "Now know that I don't wish to reignite this argument, but this does concern the twins." The knight offered, seeing Eddard about to protest.

"Very well." The Warden of the North nodded. "Let me hear it then."

"Thank you, my lord." Arthur bowed his head, and Eddard noted he was being more formal than usual. "Despite our differences in our visions for the twins, we both want them to live long and happy lives. But in order for that to happen, I would arm them as best I can so that they can carve out whichever destiny they wish." He said, and slowly brought Red Rain out of it's sheath and leaned the crimson blade against the chair Ned had offered him. "Therefore, I wish to know of any smiths in the north that can reforge Valyrian steel."

Ned's eyes widened and, slowly, he looked from Arthur to Red Rain, and back again. "You mean to melt down Red Rain and have it reforged?" He asked, rather taken aback at the suggestion.

"Indeed." Arthur confirmed. "The sword is large enough for two blades, one for each of the twins." He said, gesturing to the over sized sword, and Eddard had to admit that it was true, it would be large enough for two longswords, easily. "If there is a smith who can do this in the north, then I would see him about my request, but if not, then I would head to Kings Landing, where I know of a reputable smith would can do the job."

The Quite Wolf let out a long, drawn out breath and held his head in his hands. "It would raise suspicion if two bastards were given Valyrian steel swords." He muttered into his palms.

"I know." The Dayne conceded. "That's why I plan to take them as squires first, and when the time comes, I hope to knight them and present them with the swords." It was a sound plan, Eddard knew, and being knighted by the Sword of the Morning would do their reputation well. Yet still... "Besides, many could simply see it as a git from a loving uncle." Eddard snorted at that, but hearing Arthur chuckle, he soon began to follow suit. Soon enough, the two had devolved into small fits of laughter over the foolish thought. No uncle, no mater how loving, would just hand his nephews Valyrian steel. It wasn't until minutes later, when they had managed to reign themselves in, that Eddard managed to speak, though he seemed to have had a somber revelation.

"In White Harbor." Eddard began, his voice now sounding tired and weary, thought Arthur couldn't understand why. "There's a smith from Qohor. Word is that he can work any metal. If you wish to stay in the north when looking to reforge the blade, then that is your best option." He said sullenly.

"My lord?" Arthur began with a frown.

"I am fine, Ser Arthur." Eddard smiled grimly. "You have merely reminded me of a truth I have long wished false." He looked to Red Rain, the rocking of the boat rocking the blade side to side as though in a dance. "The twins will have to fight at some point in their lives, as all men must. I just pray that they fight beside their family. After all, when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

* * *

**That's chapter two. It came out lot faster than I thought it would, but I think that's a win.**  
**Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you thought, negative and positive and such.**  
**We begin the cannon story line next chapter, so there's that to look forward to.**  
**Until then.**  
**Toodles.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's chapter three.**  
**Gotta say, this story is getting a lot more attention than I thought it would. Huge thanks to you guys!**  
**Now, on with the story!**

* * *

**298 AC**

The crisp shill of the clear dawn sent a shiver down Arthur's spine. He rode next to Ned, a slow trot down the thin and worn road hidden in light dusting of last night's snow. They headed a column of twenty men of House Stark, each bearing iron armor and furs along with their shield and swords, riding in two files. Arthur felt that they were of little need, a mere show to any one who happened to catch them so early in the morning as they passed by a small, nearly empty farmstead. But it mattered little.

"I bet he's a wildling." Robb muttered aloud. "A sworn sword to Mance Rayder." Arthur rolled his eyes as he heard little Bran gasp.

Robb, Bran and the twins rode behind himself and lord Stark, yet ahead of the Winterfell men-at-arms and Theon Greyjoy, who mingled amidst the guards with his usual cocky smirk. Looking over his shoulder to spy the heir to the North behind him, Arthur smiled. A boy of four and ten, Robb was leaning down to whisper bed time horrors of savage wildlings and Others into his younger brothers ear. Bran, for his part, was doing his best to not look like he believed the stories, and doing a horrible job of it, as he rode his little pony beside his brother.

"If he were a wildling, then he would have met his end at the sword of the first man who found him, and not be sentenced to something like the King's Justice." Jon interrupted Robb, who looked back to give him a cheeky smile. Jon gave his own small smile in return as Bran let out a long breath.

Jon side by side with Torrhen, with the twins clad in their riding leathers, though distinctly lacking the Stark coat of arms, and live steel at their hips; as befitting his squires. Behind them rode Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy, however Theon was hanging back and talking in hushed voices with the two men-at-arms, though if the ward's lecherous expressions and over exaggerated faces were anything to go by, the heir of the Iron islands was regaling the men with one of his many escapades to the brothel of Winter town, or perhaps this story was of the miller's wife along the Acorn Water.

"We're here." Intoned lord Stark, his voice bare of emotion as it always was when he was to fulfill his duty and doll out the King's Justice. Looking back ahead, Arthur set his mouth in a grim line. In front of them, coated with a few inches of snow, was the small gathering of buildings in a gathering of farmsteads gathered around the stump of what must have been a huge Ironwood tree, a woman standing in the doorway of a small home, small babe in her arms and a toddler hiding behind her skirts as she watched the coming men wearily.

Arthur offered her his most charming smile and respectful nod, though given the smiling wrinkles about his eyes he had grown in his forty and eight namedays, he didn't think his smile to be what it once was. His mousy brown hair had begun to grey along his temples, and he now wore a sharp, well groomed beard along his jaw. The thorough grooming of his beard had earned him some jest by the guards at Winterfell, having it kept angled, trimmed, brushed and sharper than an arrow head, but Arthur refused to stop. If he was to have a beard to warm his face in the cold winds of the North, then he'd look bloody well dignified with it.

Judging by the small blush to appear to the woman's cheeks as she bowed her head and muttered her 'Mi'lord' before ducking back inside with the children, Arthur felt a small swell of pride. He still had it, even at his age.

The men slowly made their way into the center of the farmstead's square to find the man bound at his hands and feet, tied to the wall of the holdfast and gagged with a leather strip. He wore not the patchwork furs of a wildling raider, but greasy and ragged black furs of the Night's Watch. A scrawny and thin old man no taller than Robb. Seeing as he was not a wildling, Jon looked to Robb to give him a smug smile, one that earned a roll of the eyes.

Spreading out as they dismounted, the guards took up a circle around the tree stump with the crunch of snow underfoot, Wayn and Porther marching up to the deserter and unbinding him and removing the gag, Alyn and Heward standing tall and proud to the side of the farmstead square with the banners for House Stark fluttering in the gentle breeze.

"You're a deserter from the Night's Watch, yes?" Eddard spoke as he and Arthur stepped towards the man. Behind them, Jon whispered to Bran and the small boy of seven tried to stand up straighter, trying to look older no doubt, but none present thought it changed anything, none of them simply had the heart to tell him. Theon took Ice from Eddard's saddle, holding it with an almost reverent touch.

The former ranger mumbled something under his breath, his lips quivering as he did, and the odd word Arthur could make out was either 'Cold' or 'White'. Looking to his sworn sword, Eddard asked without words, but all Arthur could do was offer the same confusion that Eddard felt. Neither could make sense of what was babbled. Stepping in closer, Arthur found a grisly sight of the man.

Bags hung low and dark under his eyes, he hadn't slept peacefully in a while, and his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes gave him the look of a corpse walking. The white of his skull showed through blackened skin and dried red flesh were sure signs of frostbite having taken both his ears. A nasty hazard from taking the black, the cold was, but a hazard many suffered through nonetheless.

"You deserted the Night's Watch, did you not?" Eddard tried again, though this time the rangers words were clear for all.

"Others! The white took them!" He cried, head whipping up as eyes wild and frantic as they searched every face he could find from his held position. "Cold ones take us all! The cold comes and with it comes the blades of ice!" He howled, voice cracking until he broke out into a near sob. "Take us all... Burn them all. Burn them and never see the blue eyes and milk skin! Burn them all!"

Arthur sighed, his breath a small cloud of mist in the cold air as he looked to Eddard, an understanding passing between them; This man was insane, and no sense would be made from his words. Yet he spoke words that sent a chill through both of them. The last time either lord had heard the phrase 'Burn them all' had been in annals of history, in the Mad King's inane ravings.

Grim in eyes and somber in voice, Eddard had Porther and Wayn drag the deranged and mumbling deserter to the black wood of the stump, clearing the snow before forcing him to kneel and shoving his head downwards to expose his neck. Theon quickly stepped forward and presented a sheathed Ice to Eddard, hilt first. Jory then stood at his lords side as Ned removed his riding gloves and handed them to guard captain before reaching for Ice's hit. With a firm grasp, he pulled, and the clean, smooth dark steel was bared to the chilled air with a rasping sound that had Arthur's fingers twitch to reach for Dawn.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the awe of Bran's face at the sight of the Stark's ancestral blade, and a small smile tugged at his lips. Ice was indeed impressive; As wide as Eddard's hand and as tall as Torrhen, the tallest of the Stark brood, the greatsword was a sight to behold, white leather bindings and the overly simply cross guard doing nothing to hide its beauty.

Ned held Ice's hilt close to his chest, the smoke colored tip of the blade sinking ever so slightly into the root of the black ironwood stump. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

Eddard held the sword high over his head, the edge gleaming in the sunlight, and Jon whispered words in Bran's ear. The blade fell and so with it did the deserters head. Arthur sighed a shallow sigh as he watched the head roll and blood stain the snow, the wine red color spreading quickly. The deserter's head came to a stop near Theon's foot and the Greyjoy made to kick it with a chuckle, but a firm grip on his shoulder had him turn to see Arthur with narrowed eyes. Thinking better of it, Theon stepped away from head.

Looking to Ned, Arthur found him brooding once more, staring with a distant look in his eyes as the red crept through the snow and deeper still into the ground. He never liked death, especially after the rebellion, but less so after every swing of his sword. Arthur stepped beside his friend, shoulder to shoulder, and watched as his lord lifted his head to see his youngest son.

Catelyn had screeched over how she thought her 'Baby boy' was too young for such things, something that had given Arthur a great throbbing in his skull, but she may as well have petitioned for The Wall to stop standing, for Eddard gave no ground. Looking over at Bran now and the stunned, hollow look in his eyes, it was easily known that he hadn't looked away. There was a certain withering of innocence that came along with witnessing your first man die, and while it was never a happy ordeal, Arthur was glad that Bran's was such a tame experience, as opposed to seeing it in the confusion and chaos of a battle.

Eddard wiped Ice clean on the deserters body before sheathing it, no doubt the blade would receive some proper attention once they were back in Winterfell, and had Quent and Desmond ride out with the body and head to dig a shallow grave on the edge of the farmstead's land as the rest of them mounted up before making their way out of the farmstead.

"The deserter died bravely." Robb said into the silence. "He had courage, at the least."

"He died a crazed oathbreaker." Torrhen sighed lazily, his voice as hoarse from disuse as ever, and Robb bristled. Arthur frowned as he looked back at the boys.

"He did not beg for his life." The heir of Winterfell said, each word said as though he was stabbing angrily at a meal he was displeased with. "He died well." Torrhen merely let out a long breath. He was always short of words, though it looked that he simply deemed this not worth the effort. Robb, meanwhile, looked satisfied with his brothers silence, taking it as acceptance.

Robb had grown strong and broad shouldered, much like his father, and was his fair of skin, but he still had those bright blue Tully eyes and rust colored curls. He wore dark brown riding leathers with the Stark Direwolf emblazoned over his heart and across the back of his shoulders, a longsword sheathed in a plain black scabbard rested at his hip; Arthur had made sure he damn well knew how to use it.

Turning about in his saddle, Robb grinned at Jon. "Race you to the bridge." He challenged.

"Done." Jon quitely accepted and dug his heels into his steeds flanks, taking off at a near sprint. Robb cursed as he soon found himself being left behind, and followed suit. Soon, the two were kicking up dirty snow off the road as they tore down the trail and into the woods, the thundering of horses racing echoing until they grew too far to hear. Looking back, Arthur spied Torrhen on his own now.

"Not going to join them, Tor?" He asked curiously. Torrhen merely shook his head once, still staring off into the distant horizon, as though he had found something of great interest. Seeing the far off look in his normally sharp and keen eyes and the way that his fingers brushed along his jaw, Arthur knew he was deep in thought, though he so often found Torrhen like this that Arthur found himself wondering what he was thinking about. A sly smirk wormed its way across his face. "Thinking of Alys?" He teased.

Immediately, Tor's thoughtful look turned to a scowl, and he fingered the braids in his hair lightly. Just yesteryear, the Karstarks had visited again, with lord Rickard bringing his heir, Harrion, and his young daughter, Alys. It seemed that Alys had been the catalyst for most of the Karstark's visits to Winterfell, as she had been coming to Northern seat of power as often as she could since the Greyjoy Rebellion.

But instead of doing what the lady Catelyn had expected of a lady and sitting around doing her needlework with Sansa, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, Alys ran off with Robb and the twins. Though this year just gone, she had seemed fascinated by the hair of the twins. Jon had kept his at shoulder length, where Torrhen's had been kept at a length where it ended between his shoulder blades, and she had grown fond of playing with their rich black locks.

This, of course, resulted in several of the house guards and Theon teasing the twins, but they never seemed to pay them any mind, and by the end of the Karstarks stay, Alys had braided their hair from their temples and tied them together at the back of their heads in small, tidy knots. When Arthur had first asked about their hair, they had simply said that it kept their hair out of their eyes. The braids had stayed ever since.

Arthur smiled at the light pink on Tor's cheeks. He wasn't sure just what was going on between the twins and Alys, but he was confident that neither would take it so far as to dishonor her. They had Eddard filling their heads with far too much northern honor for that to ever happen. Yet still, Arthur found himself happy for his nephews, but worried also.

Either they had grown extremely close with Alys or one, perhaps even both, had fallen for the girl. It mattered not that they wouldn't be able to act on that love while the title of bastard hung over their heads; in Arthur's eyes, the struggle was all part of becoming men. But still, if they both felt such for the girl, it would only brig conflict between them, and that was not something that he would want to see.

Nevertheless, Arthur was proud of the men Jon and Torrhen had grown to be. He was proud of Robb too, having had a hand in raising the heir to Winterfell as well, if he were to be honest to himself. Eddard, maester Luwin and himself being the major influences of the growth of the Terrible three, Arthur had trained Robb and the twins harder and longer in the way of the sword than he had been taught himself, oft drilling them from first light till the last rays of the sun had dipped over the horizon. They'd spend a day with him, then a day with Luwin and Eddard, applying similar training to their minds with equal fervor.

Of course, Catelyn had protested, and rather loudly, about the twins taking part in the same lessons as Robb. In her mind Robb ought to be taught more than them, in both sword and mind, but Arthur and Eddard were having none of it, and in the end they both thought it had born better fruits; Robb had competition in his learning. The three brothers pushing one another to be better than each other better than any of their teachers could. Unfortunately, Arthur had begun to fear for the twins as they grew older.

Jon had taken after his Stark blood more than his Targaryen. If anything Arthur could only see traces of his father in the boy. His jaw, nose, mouth and love of the arts; He was a prodigy with the lute as much as he was with the sword. His body was also like that of a true Stark, stocky and strong with a broad chest and shoulders.

To Arthur, it was easy to see the hatred that Eddard's lady wife held against the boy for this. Arthur had heard the whispers of Winterfell of how Jon looked more Stark than any of Eddard's trueborn children, and knew that each and every word drove Catelyn further into a frenzy over the boy. The knight would have found it amusing if not for the wrath it brought upon Jon when Eddard wasn't looking.

Torrhen, on the other hand, only seemed to have his mothers hair; His face was a spitting image of Rhaegar, and his mind was all Targaryen as well, and that terrified Arthur. He was taller than any of the Stark brood by a half head and more driven when he put his mind to it, to the point where all else mattered little and one needed to shake his attention from whatever he had invested himself in.

The only thing he could not place from his father on the boy, and nor his mother for that matter, was his penchant for silence. He perhaps took after his uncle in that regard, but even the Quite Wolf was not so quite as Torrhen. He rarely spoke more than a few sentences a day, and fewer still were not pleasantries to those of higher standing than himself. The disuse left his voice rough and gravely when he used it, almost the voice of an older, grizzled man.

Chasing the thoughts from his head with a simple shake, Arthur caught the words Eddard spoke to young Bran; words of bravery and fear, words of the justice of the First Men and the Starks. The southern knight found the ways of the northern lords to be admirable, and even more agreeable than the laws of the south. He'd like to see monarchs do their own dirty work for once, just to see if half of them actual had the stomach to take a life. Though, with Robert on the throne, he might enjoy it. With that dark thought, he voiced his own thoughts on the northern justice.

"Not only that." He began, feeling both Eddard's and Bran's eyes on his back as he spoke. "But it inspires the loyalty of your people. To know that their lord would go so far as to dirty his hands to uphold the peace of the people and see justice served fairly is a privilege many of the southern smallfolk have not shared in. Their lords have a headsman do their work and watch death with an unhealthy detachment from the consequences."

"Ser Arthur speaks truly." Eddard smiled approvingly. "Our brand of justice would be something that many southerners would shy away from faster than a shadow does the sun." Bran, for his part, looked to be letting the words sink in. It was then that Jon appeared on the crest of the hill before them, framed by tall and thin dark wood trees.

"Father, Uncle, Tor! Come quickly, see what Robb has found!" His voice carried through the woods, his horse rearing back and vanishing back beyond sight. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the spot Jon had stood. Had it been wildlings or bandits then Robb would have been with him and they would have told their lord father immediately, yet this was not the case. This was something else, something decidedly less dangerous.

"Trouble, my lord?" Jory asked and he rode up the column, Wayn behind him.

"Undoubtedly." Ned sighed in good natured humor. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have managed to root out." With that, Ned led the column at a quick trot, the men-at-arms riding after their lord and captain while Bran struggled to keep up on his pony. Arthur smiled at the small beast of burden's valiant attempt, and slowed his own steed down until he rode abreast of the little lordling. Nothing was said between the two, but Bran tried to make sure his relief wasn't too obvious. Arthur simply smiled and enjoyed the relaxed pace, observing the woods around them leisurely.

* * *

The great hinges creaked and groaned as the western gate of Winterfell slowly opened, the thick and heavy Iron wood doors shifting small mounds of snow as they went. Catelyn stood tall and pale in the cold, a shawl over her shoulders, yet she refused to shiver. She had been the lady of Winterfell for four and ten years now, and she still had that whispering voice in the back of her skull that spoke of how soft the northern lords thought her to be.

Beside her stood Sansa, wearing a thick and pretty light blue dress, a shawl over her own shoulders as well, though she looked substantially more composed in the snow. It didn't surprise Catelyn, if anything she felt pride in her daughter. She was prettier than many southern ladies wished to be and could hold the elements at bay like her father. Truly, Catelyn smiled to herself, Sansa was what all northern ladies aspired to be.

Rickon was at his mothers ankles, a curious glint in his eyes as the first of the horses crossed the drawbridge over the moat and finally over the threshold of the castle itself. He was but three namedays old, but he had the wolfsblood in him, or so Eddard said. He was temperamental and stubborn, and fiercely tries to emulate his older brothers, often finding ways to escape his mother's sight to do so. Eddard oft compared him to his own siblings, Brandon and Lyanna, and their similar ways. In Catelyn's mind, she was happy for it, as it made him that much more Stark, and proved to the North that she was able to produce proper heirs for their lord.

Yet they thought not. Rickon, like Robb, Sansa and Bran, had his mothers coloring. While Sansa's was a brighter red, like flame, the boys had much darker hair, like old rust on a blade. In fact, the only child she had born that had Eddard's coloring was Arya, a true child of the wolfsblood if she had ever known one and the only child currently absent, a fact that had Catelyn gritting her teeth behind her polite smile as her lord husband appeared through the gates.

Riding beside him was his sworn sword and the only other southerner in Winterfell, Ser Arthur Dayne. The appearance of the knight was both a relief and a sore subject for Catelyn. She was glad that a swordsman of such renown and skill was under her lord husbands service, yet he had said himself that after the destruction of the Targaryen dynasty he only followed Eddard to care for his nephews, and such was the sore subject. The bastard twins.

They rode in behind Robb and Bran, Jon as sullen as always with his profoundly Stark features, something that had infuriated Catelyn to no end, while Torrhen was still his attentive self, those quick and sharp purple eyes of his and southern looks slightly easier for her to bear than his brothers. The less either of them looked like a Stark, the better, in her mind. But she discarded them from her mind as soon as they appeared and looked to her sons.

Robb looked as he always looked after joining his father for an execution; sullen and in deep thought, though he was using his arms to cradle something to his chest. She thought that such a sullen look made him look that much more like a Stark. Bran, on the other hand, brought a pang of pain to her heart. His eyes had a distant look to them, grim and dark. The look of lost innocence. Seven hells, she had told Ned that he was too young, but her words had fallen on stubborn ears.

"Catelyn." Eddard smiled a smile as troubled as any she had ever seen on his face before and his voice was formal and distant. It always was after he took a life, right up until he returned from the Godswood. Catelyn smiled back with a curtsy.

"Eddard." She greeted as homely as she could. Ned never liked taking lives, not even those of deserters and bandits, but he put his duty before his own likes time and time again. For the North, he would always say, and then continue on to do what he had to. She admired it greatly, that resolve and responsibility that he carried so truly, but she knew that everyone, no matter how strong, would need help with such a weight on their shoulders, and thus she took to helping Eddard and Luwin as best she could when it came to the stressful duty of running the North, even having Robb join them in doing so to prepare him for when he would eventually take on the title of Warden of the North.

"Where are you going, Jon?" Robb suddenly called out. Catelyn looked past her husband to see her eldest son giving a cheeky grin to the retreating backs of the twins and Ser Arthur. Though the knight was taking Torrhen into the yard, Jon looked like a child caught in the sweets pantry, standing in the doorway to the keep as he was. "Off to ponder how to craft the next love letter to Alys?" Robb grinned, several of the men, Theon too, chuckling at the brotherly teasing. "I wonder what lord Karstark thinks of you and her daughter?"

Catelyn frowned. It was well known that whenever visiting, Alys Karstark would spend her time ignoring both her lord father's wishes, to woo Robb, and Catelyn's, which was to be a friend to Sansa or an example of a northern lady to Arya. But no, she'd always run off and vanish with the twins. Such impropriety made Catelyn shudder, and the rumors surrounding them left her pitying the lord Rickard. The whispers of what she and those bastards got up too...

Jon raised an eyebrow. "You jealous, Stark?" He asked, several of the nearby guards guffing at the simple and sharp jape, while Robb colored in embarrassment. Catelyn scowled at the boy, angered by the lack of care he had for taunting his future lord so, though Eddard merely grinned easily at what he thought to be harmless banter between what he saw as brothers, but as she was prone to hearing the whispers of the castle staff, she knew the damage these remarks were doing.

'Sharper wits than the trueborn' they said. 'Quicker thinkers' others would whisper, and she felt a fire in her at their implications. That Jon and Torrhen were smarter than her son. That they were _better_ in the sword than the heir to Winterfell. That they were _better_ than Robb. That they would be _better_ lords than Robb _Tully_, not Robb _Stark_. It made her blood boil, and the castle had lost many a staff members to her growing temper with the whispers of the smallfolk. In her stewing, she watched the younger twin smile.

"No, I'm not writing lady Karstark." He said with that sullen voice, though there was a small grin on his lips. "I'm writing my lady mother." Catelyn clenched her teeth, and she could have sworn that the little shit's eyes darted over to her. He wanted to hurt her, to shame her in public! Were she in the south, she'd have him flogged for such, but no. Eddard would not allow it, and he'd be furious that she would suggest such a thing.

Catelyn's fists clenched and she felt a flush of fury in her cheeks. Before she could snap, before she could rant and rage at the insolent bastard, a hand fell upon her shoulder, warm and understanding, but also reminding. She was in public, in front of the entire castle. She could not show that he got to her with his viscous wit. Looking up from where he hands had clenched her dress, she looked into those eyes the color of storm clouds. Eddard stood before her, one hand on her shoulder and the other handing the reins of his horse to a stable hand. The remainders of the party dismounted behind him, but to her the sound was impossible to hear. She was far too focused on her husband.

"Later." He whispered, and she knew that he knew of her fury. "You can tell me all, but later. Not here." Glancing behind herself, she caught Sansa giving her a worried look, but she dismissed it with a small smile to her daughter. She was too young to see the game of words that was played in politics. Pushing her anger down, Catelyn forced herself to calm. Breathing deeply, she sent an impassive look to the twin in the doorway, but he was long gone. With a huff, she looked to where the other twin had been walking towards the training yard with Ser Arthur, but all she caught of him was his retreating back and braided strands of hair.

Frowning, Catelyn looked to Sansa, then back to the now empty walkway to the yard, and finally the open keep door. A pull of confusion and dread tugged at her gut. Why did Sansa have her hair so similar to the twin's? Sansa's twin braids from the temples held the long red hair out of her eyes, just like the twins, the only true difference being in that instead of tying her braids together like they did, Sansa's braids met and became one to end at the bottom of her neck. She looked beautiful, but she couldn't help but be weary of the similarities between her Sansa and the bastards.

It was Eddard who jolted her from her inner turmoil, his brogue northern accent cutting through the small silence. "Where is Arya?" He asked, looking about the small yard of the hunter's gate curiously. It was not like her to be absent when her father and brother returned. She'd often pester Robb and the bastards for details of what happened; Who was it? What was said? Did they die well?

Catelyn was always horrified by the questions, of course. No lady should ever speak of such things, and certainly not with such excitement. But no mater how many times she scolded Arya for it, she asked again the next time, and the older boys would indulge her with almost encouraging detail. She had scolded the twins more times than she cared to count, always leveling them with an icy glare as she reminded them of their place, but the younger one, Torrhen, oft reminded her that their station left little room to deny a lady such as Arya Stark. Damn him and his ability to twist her own logic back at her. Damn him and his brother to the seven hells and back.

"She seems to have dissapeared again." Caetlyn sighed wearily. It was far from the first time that Arya had vanished within the walls of Winterfell, and it would be far from the last. Worse still, Catelyn heavily suspected the twins influence in doing so. They had vanished many a times as well in their youth, though it was becoming less and less frequent, but Catelyn suspected that they had told little Arya of their hiding spot.

"Of course." Eddard smiled. It was unlike his previous solemn and brooding smile when he had greeted her with such a disconnect, but one of warmth and amusement. He had always found the twins vanishing acts to be amusing after the first dozen times, and now treated Arya's disappearances with the same smile. Turning to look at his sons, his true born sons, Eddard nodded to them.

"See to it that you brother and sisters receive their own as well." He said cryptically before he turned and made for the Godswood, Ice sheathed and in his hand. It was his routine, Catelyn knew. Upon executing anyone, Ned would take some hours for himself to find peace of mind in the Godswood, where few stepped foot in lest they were praying. Following his odd words, though, Catelyn looked from his retreating form and to her sons. It was then that she saw what was held close to their chests.

Small and shifting, the little furs in their arms squirmed as though restless. Catelyn fronwed and out the corner of her sight she caught Sansa looking between her father and mother in her own confusion. That was, until one of the small mounds of fur in Bran's arms lifted its head and yawned a large and toothy yawn, the pup clearly tired. Bran seemed shaken out of his thoughts by the yawn. Looking down, he smiled a sweet and innocent smile at the little pups.

"Yes. Mother, Sansa, come look." Robb grinned as he slid from his saddle, three pups in his own arms. "We found them in the Wolfswood, on the way home." He said excitedly as he stopped in front his mother. He leaned close to her, and she watched the three pups struggle against his chest, one teething at his leather jerkin in search for milk. It had smoke grey fur as it squirmed, shoving aside the second, whose fur was as black as sin. The third that Robb held was the smaller of the three, with a lighter grey fur than the first.

"Are those..." She began, mouth running dry at the thought of what lay in her firstborns arms. "Wolves?" She asked with a quivering lip. By the gods, why...

"Wolves?" Sansa nearly exclaimed as she appeared at her mothers side. Catelyn spared her daughter a quick glance, hoping that she was of the same mind of herself, that wolves were wild and savage beasts that should not be held as pets, though with that simple glance, Catelyn felt defeat loom over her. Sansa's eyes were wide with wonder and her face glowing with delight. She was in love.

"Aye." Robb flashed a childish grin, yet Catelyn felt a flutter of fear in her chest. What in the name of the seven was Ned thinking? Or was he not thinking at all? He would let his children hold wolf pups?! Young as they may be, they were wolves! Wild beasts that would no doubt bite the hand that feeds not long before taking the arm as well. "Direwolf pups." Catelyn suddenly felt faint.

"Look mother!" Bran exclaimed as he rushed to her side, the two cradled to his own chest like babes being pushed up so that she could see them closer. Silvery grey and light grey writhed about in a search of food. Catelyn's heart seemed to crawl into her throat. "We found five of them, one for each of us. Father said we could keep them!" He flashed his lady mother a bright, toothy smile of untainted joy. Catelyn Stark would not win this day.

"Truly?" Sansa looked ready to burst with joy as she rushed forward, looking upon the three in Robb's arms with unabashed adoration. "Can I have this one?" She asked, Catelyn watching as it looked as though she lifted one to her chest, but Catelyn could not see which.

"My lady." Catelyn's inner turmoil was cut short by the voice of a trusted adviser of Eddard and the man who had assisted with the birthing of each of her children. Maester Luwin was emerging from a candle lite hallway, a rolled letter in hand and his lips pressed into a grim line. "News from Kings Landing, my lady." He said gravely, reaching out to give her the message.

"What is it?" She frowned, taking the paper from Luwin's hand and quickly unfolding it, her eyes quickly skimming over the elegant and flawless writing, though her eyes seemed to freeze part way through, and Luwin sighed deeply, tiredly.

"Dark wings." Luwin began. "Dark wings, dark words my lady." Slowly, them message fell from her grasp and on the cold dirt. Catelyn covered her mouth with her hand in shock. She couldn't help but look to the entrance to the Godswood, to where he lord husband sat in his quite contemplation. Eddard... Oh how this would hurt him. Oh, her poor Ned... "There came another, my lady." Luwin continued, producing another letter from his sleeves. "This one bringing news from you lady sister."

* * *

Eddard watched the yard with a critical eye from above, seeing every shift in footwork, every muscle flex under thin leather armor and every lunge and twirl of steel in hand. Arthur prowled the edge of the yard like a beast, stroking his beard absently as he noted every fault he could find, every hesitation made. Standing nearby was Ser Rodrick Cassel, the master-at-arms. Rodrick was scowling heavily as he leaned on the wall of the barracks. He had been sour ever since Arthur had challenged him to a duel for the right to train Eddard's sons.

In the center of the yard, Jon and Torrhen were whirlwinds of steel as longswords lashed out and danced through the air. Torrhen lanced forward, Jon deflected with an almost lazy sweep. Jon brought his blade down in a downward slash, but Torrhen merely inched his head and shoulders sideways and the blow sailed past him harmlessly. Jabs and doges, parries and slashes. Overheard strikes were met with unmovable blocks, lightning fast lunges went wide with pivoting footwork.

It was a spectacle that happened every second day, the dance of steel in the courtyard, and as always, it drew a small crowd of servants with spare time and off duty guards. Though usually, there were three swords in the yard; Robb taking the afternoon off to care for his new wolf pup that he had named Grey Wind, and Bran doing the same with his own pup, though he was likely shadowing Robb to copy all he did with his wolf.

All the while, Ned tried to keep his mind on the spar. But as his eyes moved with his sons, his thoughts wandered off in tangents of memories of Jon Arryn, his second father. Dead, one message had read. Murdered, another claimed. His father, gone, was all he thought. That, and the royal horde making its way to his doorstep up the Kings road.

Jon lunged forward, and Torrhen sidestepped. Using his momentum, Jon brought his knee up and rammed it into Torrhen's gut, the impact of the leathers making the small crowd wince, yet Torrhen stood strong. Keeled over Jon's leg, he wrapped a free arm around his brothers thigh and heaved up and around. Panicking as he was lifted off the ground, Jon brought his practice sword down upon Torrhen's back. Hard. There'd be bruises along the back of his ribs in the morning.

The younger brother grunted under the strike, but spun about and then upwards before bringing him down upon the dirt of the training yard with a heave, and all the breath left Jon in an instant, sword falling from his grasp. Seizing the dropped steel, Torrhen had both blades under Jon's chin in a heart beat. Silence filled the yard as the two stared at one another with a burning intensity that had been born with their spar, before they both broke out into smiles, Jon chuckling as Torrhen flipped the stolen Sword in his hand and offered his brother the hilt. Arthur watched wit his ever critical eye as they took up positions again. Torrhen had never had a problem lording his greater height and reach over his brothers, nor using his body to messy the fight, while Jon preferred clean and precise blade work, not liking the bodily contact that his brother oft forced into the fight.

Sighing, Ned gripped the hand rail of the balcony overlooking the courtyard from the Great Keep. He wanted to mourn, he wanted to hold Cat tight and be lost in the memories of his childhood. Back in the days when he and Robert were brothers in all but blood, back in the days where his father and older brother were still alive, back in the days when Lyanna's laughter was the music of his home. Back before Harrenhal. But alas, none but the gods could sway time.

"My lord." Brought from his brooding by the old voice of maester Luwin, Eddard found the aging man standing behind him. Luwin is a small old man, with thinning hair and grey eyes, his grey woolen robes looking several sizes too big for his thin frame. Ned smiled a welcoming smile for the maester, and took an offered roll of parchment. "From Starfall, my lord." Luwin said quietly, as though Catelyn would appear from the shadows and screech at him for even thinking of the southern castle.

It was well known in Winterfell of Catelyn's loathing for lady Ashara Dayne in her part of the twins birth, and one dared not speak of her in the presence of the lady of Winterfell without suffering her frigid glare. A southern lady she may be, but the winter snows could learn a thing or two from the ice in Catelyn's eyes when Ashara Dayne was mentioned.

"Thank you, Luwin." Eddard said with a small nod. Looking down, Ned took in the thin sword and falling star of the wax seal on the parchment. Ashara had been in correspondence with her sons ever since they had first written her at seven namedays, their writing supervised by Luwin and Ser Arthur. He had been happy for the boys when they began such endeavors, Ashara's letters bringing them much ease to know their mother when they were children.

Watching as the maester shuffled away, Eddard tilted the scroll and caught the smaller roll as it slid out. There was always two, Eddard smiled; one for the twins and one for her brother. He oft wondered what Ashara and Arthur wrote of, but then thought better of it. It was no his place to know their private thoughts. Turning to look back down at the courtyard in which The Sword of the Morning was training his squires, Eddard watched them take several more swings at one another before breaking apart, taking several steps backwards before readying to clash again. Unless stopped, the brothers could do this all day, as per how Arthur wanted them to be able to.

"Jon, Torrhen." Ned called down from the balcony. In an instant, their swords were lowered to point at the ground, as per Arthur's rules when someone interrupted their training. "You mother has written you." He announced, holding the larger scroll up for them to see. "Ser Arthur." He called out, the knight already knowing what he was called for even before Ned raised the second, smaller scroll.

It was a small grace that the letters had arrived, Eddard thought as he watched the twins and the knight vanish inside the Great Keep below him. It gave him good reason to call Arthur to him. Not that he truly needed to, as Arthur was his sworn sword, but he felt it polite that he gave such reason. But now that he would be coming to him, Ned could speak to him of the matter that weighted on his mind; Robert was coming.

It would be testing for the both of them; for Arthur as Robert had killed his best friend, Rhaegar Targaryen, and for Eddard, as the last few times they had met, shouting had rung out in viscous disagreements. The once brothers were slowly falling away from each other. This, however, did not sway Robert from coming to Winterfell in the wake of Jon Arryn's death.

The Hand of the King was dead.

Eddard grimaced as he imagined what Robert would want with him in the light of such tragic happenings. But it was just as these thoughts crossed his mind when a scream split the air. In an instant, Eddard was staring in the direction of the kennels, shouts of alarm and howls and savage barks could be heard. Something had happened, someone was likely hurt, and the hounds were agitated.

Spinning about, he rushed inside and down a set of stairs, through the passage and around a corner. He pulled open a door and marched out across the bridge that stretched between the Great Keep and the armory. Behind him, he heard the swift footsteps of the twins and the heavier, armored footsteps of Ser Arthur as they all marched quickly across the covered bridge behind him.

"What's happened?" Arthur asked, both impatient and anxious. It was not often someone screamed in the castle, and lesser still that it was one of pain.

"I do not know." Ned answered. "But the hounds are agitated and someone is hurt." He opened the door as more barking and a savage snarling was heard on the far side of the kennels, nearer the Godswood. Ned's fur cloak billowed in his wake as he stepped through the armory with all the speed and presence of a king, gliding past walls lined with swords, bows, arrows and spears, a heavy scowl on his face.

Bursting through the door on the other side of the building, Ned looked out over the dense canopy of the Godswood for a breif moment before turning to his side and marching along the walkway towards the kennels. It was as he did so that the feral howl ripped through the peace of the weirwoods.

"Sounds like a hound got free of the kennels and is in the Godswood." Jon noted uneasily.

"Aye." Ned nodded. "But why the screaming? What has happened?" The questions were soon answered when a guard came rushing along the walkway from the opposite end of the lord of Winterfell, having come from the second story of the guest house, a crossbow in his arms and several bolts ready to replace the one already loaded. "Donnis." Ned called out. "What's happened?"

Donnis went rigid at the unexpected meeting of his lord. "K-Kennel master Farlen says a hound went rabid, my lord." He stuttered out. "Bit one of the kennels boys and got loose. We've chased it into the Godswood, my lord." He reported stiffly and behind Ned, Arthur swore.

"Do you know any more?" Eddard pressed in urgency.

Donnis's mouth worked for several moments before words came out. "The kennel boy is being taken to maester Luwin, Farlen says the hound was frothing at the mouth and its eyes were savage and jaws snapping as it fled and now Greyjoy hunts the hound in the Godswood with his bow and two archers, my lord." The guard rattled off.

"Shit." Arthur swore again. "Jon, Torrhen, with me." The knight had spun about and with his squires on his heels, he was marching back into the armory. Three men in three acres wouldn't find a rabid hound unless it wanted to find them, no doubt Arthur was going to gather more men to take to the dense wood. Sighing, Eddard rested his hands on the hand rails of the walkway.

"Rejoin the effort, Donnis." He muttered wearily. Snapping a quick 'Mi'lord', Donnis scurried past Eddard and the open door of the armory, likely headed to the adjoining Guards Hall and the walkway that branched off from there to watch over the exit from the Godswood that led to the crypts and north gate, keeping the hound from escaping the Godswood. Watching as a breeze ruffled the top of the foliage. He frowned.

There was something in the air, in that very breeze that unnerved him. A shift in the feeling of his already tumultuous thoughts, and Eddard sighed. He didn't need more to brood over, yet this feeling would inevitably become another added to the list. Just what he didn't need. Before he could start brooding about this new feeling, however, shouts came from the Godswood, Theon giving orders and the sound of arrows flitting through the air.

* * *

Eddard sighed wearily under the canopy of the Godswood. The sunlight was fading above him through the thick layers of leaves, yet in spite of this it was dark as night in the woods, mere flickers of a golden glow making it through to the ground like stars in a night's sky. Arthur stood beside him, sweat on his brow under his leather armor and a bow in one hand.

The hound, gone savage as it did, had proved more tenacious than anyone would have thought. A single hunting hound gone feral had led the hunters and archers of Winterfell in a four hour pursuit through the three acres, leaving the men tired and damp with sweat, even though the snow was several inches deep outside the wood. But they had put the rabid beast down, at last, and the irony of its death was not lost on the Warden of the North.

It lay before him, chest still and blood matting its short fur, at the feet of the Heart Tree. It was a chilling sight, he thought, to see the giant moss covered walls of the Guest House looming over the pale wood and crimson leaves of the weirwood tree. Worst of all, the face carved into the white wood seemed to be almost... Smiling? It brought feelings of unease to him to see. There was something unnatural about the way those watching eyes stared down at the dead hound, and the fresh sap seeping from its mouth left him with a feeling of foreboding.

"My lord?" Theon spoke up. He and those who had partaken the hunt of the hound were all behind him, awaiting orders patiently as none dared approach what could have been a terrible omen without their lords consent. Eddard sighed.

"Take it away." He muttered, though he might as well have shouted it fro all the quite did t quell his voice. "And have all the woods searched for any stray bolts or arrows." He quickly added, turning to look his men in the eyes. "I'll not insult the Old Gods by leaving weapons of war in their garden." A murmured agreement and a few silent prayers for forgiveness answered his stern voice.

Alyn and Quent were the ones to lift the hound, gingerly picking it up off the roots of the heart tree and shuffling back towards the Kennels, where Farlen would be charged with disposing of the body. Beside him, Arthur shuffled his feet.

"I'll not let you hold you tongue, my friend." Ned spoke, though he paused after that. Gods, when had that happened? Four and ten years ago he and Arthur would have killed each other given half the chance. In the six years after that, a mutual respect had been forged between the two, yet now... When had he begun to call Arthur his friend? Oddest of all, it did not feel strange on his tongue, nor did it feel like Arthur hadn't earned such familiarity from Eddard, because he bloody well had. It just sounded odd, he thought, for him to hear himself say it aloud.

"It's nothing worth worrying over, my lord." He sighed. "I am merely... Restless, I suppose." Eddard nodded. He understood why, and he was glad that Arthur was just restless. "I wonder who he's bringing with him." The knight wondered. "Of the Kingsguard, I mean."

Ned hummed in thought. "It's hard to say who else, but the Lord Commander most certainly." He scratched at the short beard on his chin.

"Ah, yes." Arthur growled. "The kneeler." Ned's eyebrow rose at that.

"Did you not do the same?" He said, cautious around the touchy subject.

"I offered my sword in service to you to stay near my nephews." Arthur quickly snapped. "I may have bowed, but not once did I kneel."

"Indeed." Eddard nodded. He'd say no more on it, but he remembered well how Catelyn had thought of the unorthodox method in which Arthur pledged himself to serve the lord Stark. He simply stood in front of Eddard, stated his intent and offered the hilt of Dawn in place of the traditional bow or kneel. Catelyn's southern blood had thought it an insult, but Ned had placated her. Eventually.

"Although if he is to bring one turn cloak, I would not put it past the King of Whores to bring the Kingslayer." Lord Dayne mused aloud, and they both grew silent in their brooding. It had been a bonding subject of sorts for the two; disdain for Jaime Lannister. Arthur may have been the one to have knighted him, but he had admitted that he regretted it ever since the sacking of Kings Landing. The hatred for the one who betrayed his oaths was a shared fire for both Stark and Dayne. "Though perhaps..." The knight began slowly. "He would not be happy if I were to train my current squires better than I did himself..."

"His pride would wilt." Eddard smirked. "Knowing that two bastards are better than himself."

"Indeed." A moment passed in silence before. "Jon, Torrhen, to me!" Arthur shouted out as he spun about. It took not even a minute before both brothers burst from the thick bush, each with a handful of arrows and bolts in hand.

"Uncle." Jon answered the summons for them both, both nodding respectfully before turning to Ned. "Lord father." He said in a much more reserved voice and another nod of respect. Ned nodded back.

"Not uncle." Arthur grinned. "Not until I say so." Shudders ran down the backs of the two squires. They both knew what it meant when they had to refer to their uncle as Ser. "To the training ground with you." He ordered. "By the months end, I want you two good enough to tear through the entire kingsguard." Both twins paled at the tall order, but as Arthur made a swift strided march from the Godswood, they were forced to follow.

Eddard pitied them, but that pity was outdone by the amusement he would get from this. It was entertaining seeing them trained on the best of days, trudging into the hall for meal times sweaty and bruised and tired. The following month would put all that to shame if Ned had read Arthur right. One month to be better than seven of the greatest knights in the lands...

A tall order indeed.

Looking back to the Heart Tree, several guards carefully stepping through the shrubs between it and the wall of the Guest House in search of stray arrows and bolts. Sighing, Ned looked to the face carved into the tree. It had sped the beat of his heart earlier to see it near smiling upon the body of the slain hound, but now it he felt that it seemed more... Content. It was odd, he thought, that he could feel the tree would have the moods of a man.

But it was in his staring that his eyes lowered, falling upon a sight that had him still in both fright and wonder. Like the main trunk and branches of the Heart Tree, the roots were a chalk white as well, and so the gorund was littered by roots rising from the top of the soil only to sink back into the earth, like ocean serpents. Yet here he stared, wide eyed and pale as he studied the perfectly white, unblemished white root on the top of the soil. The soil that was soaked in the blood of the hound.

There was a crimson pool about the root, soil nearly turned to reddish mud in the place where the body of the feral beast had drained. Yet that lone root, standing out amidst the pool of red, remained pale. It remained further pale too, as Eddard watched the bloody puddle slowly shrink. Smaller and smaller it shrunk in upon the white root, paler and paler the root grew as it drank the blood around it, and Eddard felt as though there were a cold steel pressed against his throat as he swallowed.

The Heart Tree was drinking the blood of the felled hound.

"Mi'lord, come see this!" Ned's head snapped upward, his bones popping at the speed as he was soon looking to the voice that had called him. He found Wayn standing between the black pond of the Godswood and the Heart Tree, staring at something that lay behind the Heart Tree. Eyes still wide and palms clammy, Eddard dared peek out the corner of his eye at the root in the blood before he made for Wayn, but paused. The blood was gone.

Had the Heart Tree drank it all? No, it couldn't have. It wasn't possible... Was it? Blinking, Ned stared at the root for a moment more, before dismissing the thought. He must have been seeing things, a trick of the light. Such things didn't happen. They couldn't happen. Impossible. He must have been tired. Shaking it from his mind, he walked to see what his guardsman wished for him to see.

Standing next to Wayn, he found Cayn and Heward standing opposite them, either pair on each side of the Heart Tree, though the guards were looking at the ground directly behind the tree. Frowning, Eddard did as well, and his back became rigid. Behind the tree was a lush, bright green grass. In the warmth and humid area of the Godswood, all thanks to the hot springs, the plants that needed little sunlight grew well underneath the canopy, and as such, this grass had grown very well.

Except in this one patch. It was a rectangular patch of dirt, brown and bland in the woods. Not even creepers grew over it.

"Is there something wrong with the soil?" Heward asked.

"Don't be daft." Cayn snapped. "Look at it, the shape of it... It's unnatural." He muttered.

"That it is." Ned agreed. "And I know why." All three guards looked to him, confused and curious. He was stern, sterner than usual, and glaring at the dirt like he was angry with it. "It is not something you should bother yourselves with." He said. "Off with you lot, then. You're needed elsewhere." The three guards shifted uncertainly.

"Mi'lord, are you sure that the Old Gods ar-" Wayn began

"This has nothing to do with the Old Gods." Eddard interrupted. "There are three acres of woods, I don't want a single arrow or bolt within it. See to it." He hated being rude and foul like this, but as the guards looked to one another and meekly nodded, biding their their dismissal with 'Mi'lord' or 'Yes, Mi'lord', they departed to search the rest of the wood. Eddard was soon left to stand alone, glaring at the patch of undisturbed dirt.

He'd have to move it. He'd hoped it would have stayed hidden here until he needed it, whenever that might have been if at all, but it seemed that he'd have to move it. He'd need help with that. He had buried it with lord William Dustin when they returned from Robert's Rebellion, but now... He'd ask Arthur, but not during the day, no. He'd have to do it tonight. After the evening meal. Yes, he thought as he marched from behind the Heart Tree, making for the Great Hall. He and Arthur would have to remove it and hide it elsewhere tonight.

It was because he had marched away, not looking back, that he didn't see the fresh drop of crimson sap trickle from the eye of the Heart Tree. He didn't feel the ripple that breathed through the Godswood, Winterfell and all the lands around it. He didn't see the way the leaves of the trees, the blades of grass, the fruits and vegetables and flowers in the Glass Gardens all swelled with a new breath of life. But most of all, no one but the Bloodraven and the Children felt the tingle in the air of old energy returning anew.

* * *

His breath misted in front of him and the air chilled his throat and lungs as he breathed back in. Arthur was thankful for the cloudless sky, walking under the great screen of starlight. Winterfell was slowly settling in for the night. Those of the castle trickled out of the Great Hall in small groups or alone, some stumbling from their cups, other laughing heartily after the warm meal. Serfs dashed across the cold ground with empty dishes in hand as they hurried for the kitchens. None wanted to be caught out in the cold.

One or two stopped to nod to him or greet him with quite voices and small clouds of breath that fell below their chins. No one questioned what he was doing. Outside of training the heir of Winterfell and his bastard brothers, many left his business to himself. He found it a curious thing, having thought many would taunt him for being a southern man in the North, but he supposed that the Northerners were more respectful than those of his homeland.

His boots made as soft a sound on the ground as he could manage as he walked through the courtyard, in front of the smithy and stables, through the gate between the Library tower and the Maester's turret, the ravens fluttering and cawing as they settled in for the night. He quickly strode across the Kennel yard and in front of Hunter's gate before he finally came to where his lord had summoned him.

He had always thought the Godswood eerie; Thick growth and shadows dancing underneath the thick canopy made his soldiers nerves on fire. It made him jumpy being there, and that was during the light hours. Night in the Godswood made even the Sword of the Morning weary stepping foot there. Nevertheless, he refused to be frightened off by shifting shadows and groaning woods like some maiden too afraid to check under her bed.

He found Eddard staring at the face the Heart Tree, the face carved into the wood looking that much more malicious in the shadows and the bloody tears glittered sinisterly in the dancing leaves and moonlight. The water of the black pond rippled as a blood red leaf slid through the air to touch upon the surface. Ned looked in quite contemplation, as though he were searching for answers for questions he didn't know how to ask in that carved face. He stood still at first and Arthur remained at the edge of the small clearing.

"Ser Arthur." Eddard finally said. It seemed that this meeting would be more serious than Arthur had hoped.

"You wished to see me here after the evening meal, my lord." Arthur said with a small bow of his head.

"Indeed I did." Gingerly, Ned reached out and brushed his fingertips on the rough bark of the tree. "Nearly five and ten years ago, I came home from a war that tore the kingdom in two. I rode through the gates of Winterfell with lord William Dustin, two nurse maids, two infants and yourself." Arthur remembered the day well. It had taken nigh on two and a half months to ride from Starfall to Winterfell, and lord Howland Reed had left their little group when they passed through his home of Greywater Watch, leaving them seven in number, and William had left for Barrowton not three days later.

"I came home with my sisters body, and I buried her in Winterfell's crypts." The lord of the North continued. "But I also had her belongings with me. I placed them in a metal chest and buried it where I thought it would stay hidden. I didn't think how long to keep it there, but the time has come to move it." He turned around, his somber face littered with the fluttering leaves. "William helped me bury it because I did not know you, did not trust you, at the time. But now I would call you friend, even brother. I would ask your help to hide that chest again."

Arthur breathed out deeply. It did not mist in the Godswood. It never did, the hot springs kept the air too warm for that. When Eddard had leaned over and whispered of wanting to meet him in the Godswood after they had finished their evening meal, this had certainly not been what he had expected. He was there when Eddard had collected his sisters possessions in the tower, but had never thought to ask where he had kept them.

"I would gladly be of assistance, my lord." Arthur said, stepping closer as Ned smiled.

"Thank you, Arthur." The lord of Winterfell turned about and carefully stepped about the Heart Tree, Arthur following behind him. "I had thought the Godswood would be the best place to hide it. Few people come here, and those few simply pray and leave. No one comes here looking for anything out of place, nobody notices anything out of place."

They stood behind the large weirwood now, staring down at the dark ground between the ancient tree and the mossy wall of the Guest House. Arthur couldn't see anything in the shadows, but he followed Eddard's eyes nevertheless. "Nobody, until today." Ned sighed. Unsure, the knight watched as his lord took a few tentative steps and stopped, kicking at the ground. Arthur followed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. When they did, he frowned, looking down at a patch of bare soil in the shape of a rectangle in the middle of the grass. A lone, bare patch in otherwise luscious grass. "Three guards noticed the bare soil today when scouring for arrows and bolts. They asked questions, but I had them leave." He said.

"Would you mind if I asked questions?" Arthur asked, frowning as he stroked his beard.

"I would expect you to." Ned grunted, and scuffed his boot over the soil, a sound of old metal being brushed over coming from the ground. Silently, he lowered himself to his hands and knees, Ned brushed the loose topping of dry soil aside to reveal the top of a rusted iron chest, sitting but a scant few inches beneath the surface. "This needs to be hidden again, somewhere where I know no one will look." He muttered under his breath.

Arthur fronwed. "But..." He began, searching for words to express his confusion. "Why?" He asked.

"As I said, I would expect you to have questions, but like the guards who found it, it dose not mean I will answer them." Eddard said as he swept the dirt from the top of the chest, revealing it to be slightly larger than the bare patch itself had been, several creeping grasses having attempted to find purchase in the rust poisoned ground. Digging down by the side of the chest, Ned nodded to the other side. "Help me get it out."

Arthur felt like growling, he felt like refusing his lord, to stand his ground until he had answers, but he simply gritted his teeth and sigh. Clambering down to kneel beside Ned, he began digging through the dirt with his hands. "I take it all of Winterfell's shovels were in use, then?" He muttered, giving Eddard a sideways look. The lord of Winterfell looked sour as he lightly glared at the knight. Arthur merely chuckled and continued digging.

It took them a further half hour to finally find the handles on the sides of the chest. Gripping them tightly in their dirty and calloused hands, Arthur and Eddard heaved upwards, damp dirt and clumps of grass brushing against their arms and the iron chest as they were torn loose and fell into the hole as they did. It was not very heavy heavy, but it was old and it groaned in protest, though the chest was eventually wrenched from the earths hold and onto the ground just under the Guest House.

It was hideous in its half earth eaten state, worms writhing in the damp soil that still clutched the corners and sides like a possessive lover. The iron chest was the size of a small bale of horse feed, and though the decaying iron was heavy, the chest was lighter than one would expect one of its size to be, as though it was not half filled.

Arthur and Ned let out long, deep breathes as they sat on either side of it, simply staring at it under the night in the thick Godswood canopy. "Eddard." Arthur sighed. "I think I am owed an explanation, at least."

Eddard looked down at the ground in front of him, hair hiding his face from his sworn sword. "And just what, Ser Arthur, do you wish for an explanation of?" He asked tiredly.

Arthur's back straightened and he took a deep breath. "You said that you buried the chest of your sisters belongings, this chest, to hide it. Just what did you find among her belongings that made it something that needed hiding?"

Eddard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There are clothes in this chest. Some riding leathers... Things from both Lyanna's room here in Winterfell and the Tower of Joy." He said quitely. "But in the tower, I found papers. Letters, stacked and tied together. I read one of them and..." A shaky breath was the only sound he made for a moment. "I should have burned it. I should have destroyed it so no one could have read it. But should the twins find out about their parents and feel they need more proof than our mere words, then they would need that letter." He looked to Arthur then, looking so much more tired and so much older than before. "It is the letter in which Rhaegar discusses their names."

Arthur's mouth worked like a fish's, opening and closing for a few seconds before he clamped his jaw shut. It was a true reason for not burning the letter. If the twins were ever told of their true parentage, then they would need more than just the words of Eddard and himself. Physical proof of their mother and father writing about them before their births ought to be proof enough.

He sighed. "What of the other documents?" He pressed. "You said there were stacks of papers. What of those? What was written?"

"I don't know." Ned admitted in a small voice. "I couldn't... It hurt too much to read them when I found them, and I have not been able to bring myself to look upon them since the tower." Arthur nodded, resting a comforting hand tightly upon his friends shoulder. He could understand. Even after all these years, Lyanna's passing weighed on his shoulders. It was made all the worse, in Arthur's mind, that she died in Eddard's hands.

"What of the eggs?" He asked, thinking to change the topic.

Ned shook his head. "No, they are not here. They rest elsewhere, somewhere where they would be close to me most times." He said. "I think it best to leave it at such."

"Agreed." Arthur nodded. The two men rested for a breif few moments, Arthur taking in the revelation and Eddard relishing the slight weight lifted from his shoulders. Eventually Arthur sighed tiredly, pushing himself off the ground and offered a hand to Eddard. A slow blink and nod, Ned reached up and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "Well, my lord. Where do you pan on hiding it?" He asked, a soft breeze rustling leaves on the topmost layer of the canopy.

"This chest is of her belongings in life." Ned muttered. "They ought to be with her in her rest, too."

"Aye, my lord." Arthur agreed. It was sound northern logic. It may not have made sense to many southerners, but having become one of the northmen in the past four and ten years, he could see the meaning behind the decision and, as it was in its own way, the sign of mourning it represented. The Quiet Wolf still howled for the lost pack.

Reaching down, both took a handle on the side of the chest and lifted. Grunting as he repositioned his grip, Arthur nodded forward, and they began their slow, hobbling pace. The Godswood was three acres of dense wood and root riddled soil, making the walk feel that much linger than it was, and time slipped by as they shuffled through the woods, through the gate of the Godswood, across the North Gate and ducking under the arch that lead into the Lichyard. It was a chilling sight, sitting under the stars with the mists of a summer night creeping in between the headstones like ghastly tendrils of ill intent.

Undeterred by the theme of a bedside story of fright, Arthur and Eddard pressed on, skirting down the edge of the Lichyard and into the entrance of the Crypts. Slowly, steadily, the two noblemen made their way down the narrow stairway that led into the dark resting places of the Winter kings and lords. The crypts a had always unnerved Arthur.

Stone pillars lined the long walkway in pairs, and between them stood the stone sepulchers of Starks long dead, iron greatswords in their hands and snarling direwolves at their feet. Spiderwebs decorated old figures long forgotten and hairy black bodies scurried into the shadows as they passed by. Pale grey eyes carved from unseeing, unfeeling stone stared them at down as Eddard, torch in hand, lit the way onwards.

Soon enough, they came to a stop in front of the only statue of a woman in their entire crypt. She sat upon her seat, delicate looking with her braided hair sitting on her left shoulder and wearing an elegantly carved dress that rippled like water. Placing the chest on the stone floor, the two men took the time to simply stare at the statue of the woman, of the sister, they once knew. The flickering the firelight gave her eyes little warmth, and the shadows dancing behind her looked like some vile beast trying to swallow the last image of her they had.

"The stone mason had never laid eyes upon her, had he?" Arthur asked in a despondent tone.

"No." Ned said grimly.

"Figures." The knight huffed. Another moment of silence passed.

"Her nose was more rounded than that." Eddard sighed. "Her lips a little thinner."

"Aye, and her eyes are all the wrong shape." Arthur agreed. "Her hair was never braided, either. It was always free and blowing in the wind."

"Yes, it was." More silence, but this more of silent lamentation. If he had the handmaid ride to a nearby town to fetch a maester, would Lyanna still be alive? Would the twins still have a mother? He shook himself free of such thoughts. "Come, before we are missed and you lady wife sends half the castle searching for us." Arthur forced a smile, one that was mirrored by his lord.

Gingerly, they lifted the slab of stone that had been shaped into the top of Lyanna's tomb. It was slow work, heavy stone grinding against heavy stone, but they managed to shift it until there was space enough for them to lower the chest inside. Peering inside, both men caught sight of a thin body wrapped in a Stark banner. It was cold and smelt musty, several cobwebs stung up in the corners of Lyanna's resting place, and Arthur couldn't help but feel... Wrong, to be there, opening her tomb like this and placing something in her grave with her, even if it was to protect her sons.

Her sons. The thought brought a sullen breath from him. Would they ever find out the truth? He had mixed feelings on the matter. They deserved to know. They deserved to know more than anyone. But what would they do when they found out? Would they hate Eddard and Arthur for lying to them all this time? Would they accept the truth peacefully? Would they pursue their birth right?

"What troubles your mind, Arthur?" Eddard asked as they released the handles on the chest, the sound of its rusted bottom thumping to the floor of the tomb shaking throughout the crypts.

"The twins." Arthur admitted, grunting as he pushed the lid of the tomb from one side while Eddard guided it by pushing from the other. "The truth of them. The truth of what they are owed by blood."

"You speak of the Iron Throne?"

"Aye." The knight nodded as they turned and began to walk back to the stairs leading to the starlit sky. "We've raised them as best we could, but... Will they ever be told?" He asked, looking to his best friend as they turned away from the darkness that had taken Lyanna's body and her chest of belongings once again.

"I don't know." Ned sighed. "It would be safer for them if they didn't, but they should know. It is only right." On that, they could agree. "But even if it is, there is nothing they can do without the name Targaryen. They are bastards." The lord of Winterfell stated.

"They are the heirs to the throne." Arthur growled out. They had argued this back and forth several times over the years, but this would be the first time in nigh on five years that they had. "It is there's by blood."

"Rhaella named Viserys as king." Eddard pointed out with frustrating bluntness. "Jon and Torrhen have no birthright."

"Others take Viserys." Arthur swore. "He's spent the past thirteen years running and hiding from Roberts blades. He hasn't had the time to learn how to rule, he would have no idea how to run the seven kingdoms. The twins though... Aegon and Jaehaerys have been taught how to lord over lands and people since they were five, longer than Robb might I remind you." The knight said with an annoying air of smugness. "They know how to rule and they have to right attitude for it. People know them. No one knows Viserys save for those whose front doors he has prostrated himself on."

Eddard snorted at the imagery. "The people know them as bastards, Arthur. They would refuse them just as they would Viserys." He tried to reason.

"Not with the backing of the North."

Eddard Stark stopped in his tracks a mere few paces from the staircase, the flame of the torch and fleeting shadows casting a myriad of dark emotions on his face. "Do not ask treason of me." He said quitely, angrily.

"It would be treason against the rightful king if you didn't." Arthur said. "Robert took the throne because of a lie." He began. "With you supporting them and with the evidence in Lyanna's tomb, the only kingdoms that wouldn't want them on the throne would be the Westerlands and the Stormlands, and that's because they sit upon the throne now. You could have five kingdoms at your back, Eddard, if you do this the right way." There was an urgency, hushed and impatient, to his voice.

The silence was only staved off by the tiny crackles in the flame of the torch, otherwise, Arthur felt, the silence would have been ringing in their ears like a drum. Then, Eddard spoke. Quick and sharp. "I am tired, Ser Arthur. I will be retiring for the night." With that, he strode off, swift and long strides that soon carried both him and the torch up the stairs and out of sight, leaving Arthur is the oppressive darkness of the crypts.

He sighed into the shadows, misted breath unseen, and turned to look down the walkway, down into the deep gullet of the crypts of Winterfell. The crypts were oft called the vault, and the short walkway in front of him lead to a great cavern, housing the tombs for hundreds of the past kings and lords of winter and the North. Arthur had only been down so far into the crypts to see the cavern just the once, and that was mostly out of idle curiosity, but he could safely be sure that what he saw down there was bigger than the rest of Winterfell.

He though on Eddard's words, they way he reacted. He knew that Eddard was no longer certain about Robert. The last two times they had met had been nought but great arguments, Robert's famous Baratheon fury against the cold storm of Eddard's rage. He knew that what little friendship they had was now strained, but he doubted that it was over. It was why, he assumed, Robert was now coming north to name Eddard the Hand of the King.

Ned was a northerner. That meant that they didn't like political scheming and power plays down south. They preferred loyalty, honor and honesty. It served them well, too, so long as they didn't go south. Northern ways didn't fare well down in the southern lands, where every smile hid a knife behind their backs. He liked that about the North, though. You could trust people. They kept their word and you could figure out what kind of person they were in the first few moments of conversation.

Nevertheless, that same honor and loyalty he had grown fond of here in the North was what stood in the way of the twins taking their right by blood. Eddard was still on shaky terms with Robert, but they still considered each other friends, and Eddard refused to betray those he considered friends. With a shake of his head, he turned and left the crypts, feeling as though all the eyes of passed kings and lords were watching his back as he went.

This place never failed to make him feel uneasy.

* * *

**And that is chapter three. I do hope you like it.**  
**I've been receiving a few PM's and I must say I have been enjoying them. So, in light of such, feel free to send me PM's if there's something you want to discuss, any topic you'd like really.**  
**Anyway, next chapter marks the arrival of the royal procession.**  
**Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter, what you liked and/or didn't like.**  
**Till next time.**  
**Toodles.**


End file.
